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# PEBBLES FROM A NORTHERN SHORE

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## Stories by  
Peter D. Wilson

Copyright Peter D. Wilson 2011

Peter D. Wilson asserts his right under the UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes

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For permission to reproduce material from this e-book,  
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contact details may be found under "About the author".

Disclaimer

These stories are works of fiction, and any resemblance therein to persons, events or situations in past or present reality is coincidental.

Cover photo copyright Peter D. Wilson 2011.

Seascale beach, Cumbria, UK, looking towards St Bees Head and Scottish coast.

Original JPEG file (without inscription) available on request.

## CONTENTS

Ermine

The Competition

Flashback

The Empress of China

The Hand

Ernscar

On Wings of Song

The Legend of the Hurdy-Gurdy

Culture Shock

Graceful Ghost

The Gift

Sunset

Epilogue

## ERMINE

I remember clearly - at least, I seem to remember, although by now it is probably no more than the wraith of a memory, a recollection of having remembered - my father calling softly one morning from the back door, "Come and look at this - but quietly, don't frighten them." Huddled in a corner of the garden were three little creatures, two dark, one pure white apart from a black tag to the tail. "It's an ermine," my father said. "Normally they're white only in winter, but this one's kept its warm coat until now. I don't blame it." And shivering, he went back inside.

I've always had an affinity with small animals (compensation, perhaps, for ineptitude in human relationships) and these three fascinated me. I inched forward, offering extended fingers - yes, inviting a nip, but I didn't know or care. The two darker animals shrank back, but the ermine held its ground for a time, then itself came timidly towards me, sniffed at the finger tips, and eventually rubbed almost like a cat against the palm.

My mother had come silently up behind me and passed some scraps of raw mince that the ermine, after a little hesitation, tried and then ate eagerly. The two darker stoats scattered when more of the mince was thrown to them, but crept back gingerly and tucked in as though they had been starving for days. Quite possibly they had.

Over the next few weeks the three came regularly to be fed and gradually lost much of their nervousness. Indeed they seemed quite inquisitive, but only the ermine - we christened her Irma - would venture into the house. My mother, not relishing the idea of messes in her over-scrupulously cleaned household, was half intrigued, half horrified when it first happened, but there were no accidents, at least none worse than a few rather muddy paw prints near the door, and she was used to mine; after a little ritual complaint, her anxieties gradually faded. She even commented eventually what a lovely and surprisingly well-behaved animal Irma was.

When the weather improved and with it, presumably, the hunting, we saw less of the others but Irma still came, less for the food than for the company. It was extraordinary that she should so take to human kind, but perhaps her peculiarity of retaining the winter coat, as she still did, made her unwelcome to her erstwhile companions.

We discovered that she had a lair in a wilder part of the garden that my father mostly tended meticulously. Even so, she liked to see what was happening indoors, and would spend some time investigating my pockets. At a party one evening, the guests were startled when a little head with a pair of beady eyes popped up from there in the middle of the meal. Another time, when she hadn't been seen for several hours and we weren't sure that she had gone out for the night, we found her curled up in my school cap.

I did once take her to school, but her darting about upset the girls and distracted the boys, so the teacher firmly forbade any repetition.

She had been with us for quite some time when we had a family outing and I thought that she would appreciate a change of scene. Curiously - the mind plays peculiar tricks - I can't remember exactly where it was. In later years I often searched for it, but with no success, and maybe I've mis-remembered some distinctive features of the approach or even imagined them, but there was certainly a wide valley with a stream and, beside it, a roughly conical hillock with a grassy hollow at the top. Another thing I don't recall is why I decided to stay there while everyone else went on down the valley; maybe I had to prepare for an exam, or more likely, having scrambled up the rather steep slope with some difficulty and loss of breath, I simply didn't want to waste the effort by coming straight down again.

It was a warm, windless, sunny day with scarcely a sound apart from the chirping of grasshoppers, the rippling of the stream, and perhaps some bird song; at any rate, the almost unbearable beauty of the violin part in 'The Lark Ascending' still brings it back to me. I dozed over a book, and Irma, after ferreting around for a while, came back and rested in the shade of my discarded jacket. I must have fallen more soundly asleep, for suddenly there was a shout from across the stream, "Come on! It's time to go home." I grabbed my jacket and prospected a way down. I was physically as well as socially nervous and awkward, the grass tussocks were slippery, and the descent took all my attention. At the bottom, Irma was no longer with me, and call as I might, she failed to reappear. The others joined in, but eventually there was no choice but to leave.

For weeks, I returned every time I could persuade anyone to take me to search and call, but without success. My father, gently as always, tried to wean me away from it and at last put his foot down. "She's a wild animal after all. She's probably gone off with others of her kind." More probably my instinct was right, and she had met with some accident. We never saw her again.

Time may dull the sense of loss; it never eradicates it. Sixty years on, after vastly worse events, it still hurts beyond all reason. But time can also bring a little wisdom. Given the disparity in life span, that loss, one way or another, was inevitable, and for a child it was perhaps better to be sudden than to watch a beloved creature age, sicken and die slowly. We do well to count our blessings. Looking back through tears, I can be thankful at least for what we were given; a presence of grace and beauty that was with us for a while at its best, and then went quietly away.

Return to Contents

##  THE COMPETITION

I never wanted to run the parish magazine. Indeed, I never imagined doing it until Mike Evans, who had dealt with it for years, was made redundant and thought himself lucky to land a job at the other end of the country. He tackled me one Sunday after the morning service, much to my astonishment. "Why me? It's not my line at all."

"You've done the odd piece from time to time, so I know you're literate. You don't disappear for weeks on end. You know most of the people who put in the regular entries - and what's more, you seem to get on with them fairly easily."

"There are plenty of others who can do that."

"Maybe, but I've been through all the possibilities, and none of them will do. What I've seen of their writing would either shock the old stagers or bore the pants off a marble effigy."

"Does that really matter? Surely the editor's job is to assemble the material, not to write it."

"Don't you believe it. There are always gaps to fill, and you haven't seen half the stuff in anything like the form I get it. And don't tell me you haven't time; you've only just retired, so you can't have picked up the usual load of voluntary jobs yet. If it's any help, I don't move for a couple of months, so I can hold your hand for those two issues."

So I was talked into it; always a soft touch, as my wife complained (she takes after her mother, but we needn't go into that). "I can't do with having you under my feet all day."

"Well, your feet don't have to be in that particular room all day, do they?"

"It's got to be cleaned."

"Once a week is quite enough."

And that piece of heresy left her, for once, speechless. If I got in her way, as she put it later, it was better than having me cause mayhem by driving for Meals on Wheels.

As it turned out, the job wasn't as difficult as I'd feared, and most people seemed fairly happy with the result. They probably glanced through the bits that directly concerned them and skipped the rest. However, after about a year, one of the bright young teenagers happened to comment that it was all a bit tame and predictable, and couldn't we liven it up a bit? Looking back over the past half-dozen issues I had to admit that she had a point.

The question was, what to do about it? She had nothing particular to suggest, but after discussions with various friends someone proposed a short story competition, and it seemed as good an idea as any. So we set it up, with fairly relaxed rules: original work, a thousand words give or take a hundred or so, the winning entry to be published in a special issue of the magazine. The parish funds wouldn't run to much in the way of a prize, but there would be the option of sherry or a box of Belgian chocolates. As there weren't all that many likely entrants, they could put in as many pieces as they wished. I persuaded a literary friend from my student days to judge the entries, and he wasn't likely to know any of the authors, so we didn't need to bother with pseudonyms.

The deadline was getting uncomfortably close with no sign of any response when Bob Jones came along rather tentatively with a couple of pieces. He wasn't sure if they were suitable and wanted my opinion before formally submitting them. I knew something of his daytime work; he produced accurate, clear, concise, strictly grammatical and dry-as-dust technical reports, exactly as required but hardly the stuff of fiction, so on the quiet I was not too hopeful but relieved that he had saved the competition from being a total flop. One of the stories, he explained with a touch of embarrassment, came from a particularly vivid dream, the other from an actual episode in fact.

That week we had visitors with young children who needed constant entertaining, and by their bed-time I was too tired to face Bob's efforts as I imagined them, so a few days passed before I could go through them. They both proved a surprise. The first I read was an uncharacteristically sentimental childhood reminiscence of a white stoat, found apparently starving, that had more or less adopted the family and become something of a pet before disappearing back into the wild.

If that seemed out of character, the second story was far more so; quite fantastic, in fact, but then dreams often are. It started off ordinarily enough describing a simple if puzzling incident. He had been unable one Christmas morning to find his watch, normally left overnight on the dressing table. He lived alone, no one else had been in, and the watch was nowhere else he might inadvertently have put it. As with most habitual actions he had no positive recollection of having taken it off the previous night; he knew the strap was badly worn, and he feared it must have fallen off without his noticing, possibly at the midnight service or on the way back. Nevertheless he searched again and more thoroughly that evening, pulling the table further away from the wall but finding only dust behind it. Then he saw that the watch had reappeared, not against the wall where it might conceivably have fallen but in a clear space where he couldn't possibly have missed it earlier.

He could think of no plausible explanation, and was almost tempted to blame gremlins, especially when the pattern was repeated. Other items disappeared for varying intervals, to be found in places already searched. Sometimes they seemed to work a little better than he remembered. The oddest incident, superficially trivial but disturbing, concerned a Pilot drafting pencil. Or rather, he thought that was the make, but he happened to notice some days later that it was marked "Navigator."

He had never previously doubted his own sanity, but as the incidents piled up, he became more and more worried about them and began to think along those lines. Half-jocularly he commented on one or two of the less bizarre examples to some of his closer friends, and was greatly relieved - at any rate in one sense - to find that they too were having similar experiences and putting them down to absent-mindedness or the mischief of children. Thus reassured, he concocted a theory that some invisible alien intelligence was at work, with no sign of malice (that at least was comforting), but inquisitive enough to borrow artefacts, take them apart to see how they operated, and return them reassembled once it was satisfied. He supposed that to check its conclusions it made copies, sometimes with functionally insignificant errors of detail, and on occasion it made the more serious mistake of returning the copy instead of the original.

Then his secretary was off one day without explanation or any subsequent recollection of the absence. And the single earring that she always wore on her left side was now on the other.

When I next bumped into Bob he was gratified that I quite genuinely considered both his entries eminently suitable, and especially that I thought either of them could stand a good chance of winning, depending on what mood the adjudicator was in. (I saw no need to mention the lack so far of other competitors.) He had some queries about the format required for the final draft, and I assured him that so long as it was neat and legible, nothing about the actual arrangement really mattered. I also commented how lucky he was to have seen a stoat in its winter colouring, as I never had.

"Neither have I."

"So the one in your story was really just the normal brown, was it?"

"Oh, none of that ever happened at all."

"But you said it did!"

"Not that one. I said one of the stories was based on fact. It was the stoat that I dreamed."

Return to Contents

##  FLASHBACK

The area was one unfamiliar to Henry, a gently rolling landscape with scattered villages visible from the escarpment on his approach. There was a farmhouse a mile or so outside the nearest, from its appearance still occupied although rather dilapidated, and strictly functional \- an honest piece of vernacular architecture, dignified in its simplicity. It was approached along a track through the fields, rather overgrown but still easily passable. The farm seemed to be mainly arable with few animals in evidence, although with the crops harvested and some of the fields recently ploughed the birds were making the most of available pickings.

There was no answer to a knock on the door but it yielded immediately, neither locked nor latched, with just a faint groan from the hinges. No answer to a call, either. After the sunshine outside, the interior felt rather chill and Henry shivered a little. The only sounds were a distant chattering from the birds and a gentle sighing of the light breeze that must have risen with the approaching sunset, as he hadn't noticed it before. If he was to complete his errand there was no choice but to press on, so he went down a passageway towards a door that stood open at the end. The passage had no window of its own and the chill deepened noticeably, but evening sunlight still showed from the room ahead. It proved to be sparsely furnished, with a deal table and a few plain chairs, and a pair of shelves bearing an odd collection of plates, dishes and so on. Something impelled Henry to close the door behind him, but with an inch to go it met a soft but determined resistance. He pushed harder, to no avail. Despite the chill, which despite the sunlight was even deeper here, he began to perspire a little. With no visible obstruction, the door would still not close and he began to feel slightly alarmed. Then, for no apparent reason, a brass dish fell noisily from one of the shelves ...

Automatically silencing the clock he struggled slowly awake, the farmhouse room fading gradually from his inner vision. He now paused, panting a little, trying consciously to calm his thumping heartbeat. This would simply not do. The dreams, variations on a theme, were becoming more frequent, their impact more marked, and he was sure that they must hold some significance that he ought to fathom. What it might be, however, he had no idea. He abhorred any suggestion of clairvoyance, yet the dreams bore no discernible relationship to anything he could recall from the past; nor did they seem related to any current problem.

A direct attack on the question seemed unlikely to be fruitful, so dismissing it for the time being, he arose and prepared for his day. The weather promised to be fine, his hours were moderately flexible and with no particularly urgent business in hand he chose to walk the mile and a half to the estate agency where he worked on the other side of the little town. He could almost have done it with his eyes shut and indeed allowed himself to daydream a little. A lifelong bachelor, he still had occasional romantic yearnings and regretted slightly that his line of work offered little chance of drawing in the kind of attractive young woman who might appeal for help to Sherlock Holmes or Lord Peter Wimsey - not that he had any illusions about his own qualities. He was a decent, pleasant-mannered, unassuming man, no longer young and never handsome, with no particular hobbies or activities, and "Let's face it," he told himself, "a bore." A woman would have to be desperate even to contemplate him as a prospect, and he could do without that; at any sign of interest, he would probably run a mile.

The office post had arrived just before him, and the manager was studying one letter with a slight frown.

"What's up, Ted? You look puzzled."

"Morning, Henry. Take a look at this - tell me what you make of it."

The letter bore the heading of solicitors with whom they had done business several times to mutual satisfaction, though nothing out of the ordinary, and Henry wondered what was coming.

It concerned the will of a client, a major part of whose estate was a property in rural Yorkshire. For some obscure reason - hints about a possible conflict of interest on the part of the obvious agents - an independent valuation was needed, and would their firm take on the job? Discretion would be of the essence, as it was important not to tread on sensitive toes; hence the reluctance to deal locally.

"Seems a bit odd, Ted."

"Doesn't it? But I'm rather intrigued. Oh, didn't you come from around there originally?"

"More or less, but not particularly close. I doubt if I've ever been within twenty miles of the place."

"Perhaps that would be all to the good. Fancy taking a short working holiday, going back to your roots and all that? Things are slack enough here at the moment."

So it was that Henry found himself ensconced for a week at a hotel in Ingleton. After a painful crawl behind a milk tanker most of the way from Otley, thanks to road works that prevented overtaking on the Skipton by-pass, he had arrived rather later than he intended but fortunately in time for dinner after a hasty wash and brush-up. In the dining room he noticed with mild interest a middle-aged, prosperous-looking man with a clearly younger woman - secretary, daughter or mistress? "Daughter" could soon be ruled out, and Henry thought probably a combination of the other two, although he reminded himself that they might just possibly be a perfectly respectable if unusually disparate recently-married couple - he had decidedly old-fashioned views of such things. "And none the worse for that" he would say if reproved for being behind the times.

A party of youngsters had taken over much of the bar lounge, but Henry found an odd table where he could sit with his whisky and crossword, trying to shut out the noise. He was in the midst of it when another lone diner approached and asked if he might share the table.

"Of course, yes. A bit crowded, isn't it?"

"Certainly is. The name's Fraser, by the way - Jim Fraser."

"How d'ye do. Henry Armitage."

Fraser glanced over his shoulder. "I noticed the two love-birds disappeared smartly enough."

"So they caught your eye too, did they?"

"You could hardly miss them. Well, good luck to them - whatever they're up to."

Henry smiled non-committally. "None of our business, really, is it?"

"None at all - but it's interesting to speculate."

"True enough."

Light dawned on a clue in the crossword that had so far baffled him, and he quickly filled in the rest, leaned back with a satisfied sigh, and finished his whisky. Fraser offered a refill, politely declined, but got one for himself. Henry silently hoped that he wasn't going to be stuck with a drunk, but Fraser explained that he always limited himself to two: "Liable to sleep badly otherwise."

"It's good to meet someone who knows his limits."

"I've seen too much of people who don't."

"Gets a bit much at times, doesn't it?"

"Certainly does."

Henry began to think that certainty might become a shade trying, but a welcome suggestion of doubt crept into Fraser's conversation. "You're not from these parts, are you?"

"No, I work in the south - I hope I don't need a passport around here!"

"I've generally found people welcoming enough, so long as you don't put on airs and graces. But saying you work in the south suggests that you didn't start there."

"I didn't realise you were a detective!"

Fraser laughed. "Nothing of the sort - a journalist actually. Though I suppose the jobs may have something in common - especially with things that people have good reason to keep quiet."

"Is that why you're here?"

"No, just staying with my sister who's had a bit of trouble lately. She had to go to Kendal this evening so I've dined out. How about you?"

A warning bell rang for Henry, so he produced his cover story (mostly true, in fact) that he was born over towards Thirsk but had never got to this side of the Dales and thought it about time that he did.

"Did you take a look at your old haunts on the way? You'd have seen some changes, mind you."

"No, there was no point. I had an accident just before we left, and something knocked out all my memories of the place. They never came back, either."

"Sounds as though you got off lightly. A bang on the head - I suppose that was it? - can have all sorts of nasty after-effects."

Henry agreed, and after a few more minutes of inconsequential chat Fraser excused himself to prepare for his sister's return. Henry asked at reception about local maps and was advised to try the information centre, then retired himself. The wind had risen rather noisily, adding to the usual difficulties of sleeping in an unfamiliar bed, and Henry got through rather more than he had intended of the book brought for such a contingency. Eventually he drifted into his recurring dream, though this time with a difference. The farmhouse looked in better trim than usual, the track to it was well-maintained, and cattle were grazing in one of the fields. His knock at the door was quickly answered by a pleasant-looking woman who greeted him warmly and invited him in.

"Come for the milk, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"I've a few more eggs than usual - do you think your mum would like some?"

"Probably, thank you."

Then the incongruity struck him. His mother had been dead for twenty-odd years, he hadn't worn shorts since primary school so why was there a draught around his knees? - he couldn't see them, the room faded into something like its usual dilapidated condition as far as he could tell in the failing light, and the woman's voice receded into the dim distance. He tried to follow but met an increasing resistance until all went dark, the book slipped from his hands and a convulsive jerk pushed it off the bed-cover, waking him with the sound of its fall.

With several hours to go before his intended time of rising, he settled down again but couldn't help thinking about this novel variant of his dream. The more he considered, the more it seemed likely to reflect something in the forgotten part of his childhood, and he wondered what had happened to the farm in the meantime. In the usual scenario it was evidently still worked after a fashion, but very much in decline. Was that knowledge or imagination? How old was he in that version? And why did the terrain seem unfamiliar? Of course, because all conscious memory of it had been lost. As for age, beyond a certain point it was immaterial, but a vague sense of world-weariness that he now remembered pervading the dream suggested that it might not be far short of his own as at present. He hadn't previously recognised it, and was surprised by the discovery. "Must be getting old," he thought to himself. "As old as you let yourself feel," came an unexpected mental rejoinder.

With a jolt he recalled the usual cliché about talking to oneself, and wondered how far such an internal exchange might be common experience - not the sort of enquiry easy to slip naturally into a casual conversation. He comforted himself with the thought that it was just a facet of seeing both sides of any question. "You mean forever dithering," promptly came back. "Oh, go to hell!" he muttered, and fell asleep.

In the morning, the girl at the information centre was single-handed and fully occupied with a group whose enquiries involved several long telephone calls. Meanwhile Henry found the Ordnance Survey section he wanted and browsed casually through the books on offer. A handy volume on walks in the area caught his eye, and he wondered if any of them might pass conveniently close to the property he was supposed to be investigating. Disappointingly, none did, according to the sketch-maps provided, but it had been a long shot anyway. The book was however attractive, and when the chance came he bought it for its own sake.

Only later, reading the most nearly relevant chapter in more detail, he found a caution against taking a wrong direction at a point where the path forked. The false turn, he realised, would in fact be in the direction he wanted. Moreover there was note about a feature a mile or so from the junction that might warrant a deliberate diversion: a large house, now derelict, with in the grounds a model village, weather-beaten after long neglect but still more or less intact. Henry remembered being charmed by something of the sort in the Cotswolds, although there the model was of the village where it actually stood, so had to include a representation of the model itself, which therefore had ... In fact the scale precluded going many steps down that route, and Henry wondered about the possibility of building a computer model incorporating a scaled-down version of itself, repeatedly to a limit set only by the resolution of the computer, rather like the Mandelbrot set. "Very likely some idiot has done just that," he thought - and then "Idiot yourself - whose idea was it?"

Idiotic or not, the urge to visit the model proved irresistible, especially with the excuse of taking him closer to the real purpose of his visit. The stile marking the start of the walk proved easy enough to find, and there was space to park his car without seriously obstructing anything. The wind had something of a bite to it, and he strode out briskly, pausing only briefly for occasional references to the guide book where there was any doubt about the route. The fork, when he came to it a couple of miles on, was indeed indistinct enough for Henry to have started along the diversion without realising it, but he checked his bearings and continued. The path rose gently for about half a mile and then dipped into a slight hollow, in which the solitary house was very obvious. The boundary wall was broken in several places, but from a distance the house itself looked in pretty good shape; only closer was it evident that most of the roof slates had gone from the further side, some of the trusses too, so it was no surprise that the floors had rotted and there was little left but the stone shell. It had clearly been abandoned for many years, but how long it had stood before that was hard to tell.

The grounds were of course overgrown, although there was enough evidence of formerly careful tending for Henry to wonder what had caused the fall from prosperity. Sheer isolation no doubt had a lot to do with it, and possibly failure of the family line in one way or another; it had happened often enough with rural estates when sons went looking for brighter lights and daughters found no husbands willing to maintain the property.

The model took some finding but was worth the effort; a great deal of care had evidently gone into its detailed construction, and Henry bent to examine one particular feature more closely. His foot caught in a clump of heather and he lost balance, falling rather heavily and winding himself. Collecting his wits he realised from this new perspective that what he had taken to be a small rock, partly hidden by bracken, was in fact an outlying farmhouse of the model - a good representation of vernacular architecture, dignified in its simplicity ...

"Are you all right?" came a voice from behind him.

"Oh, yes, I think so, thank you." Henry struggled to his feet, finding his right knee to be actually a little painful. Looking round he found a sturdy middle-aged woman with a pair of Labradors that came nosing around, accepting a rub behind the ears.

"But look, there's blood on your trousers," she pointed out.

"Oh, it's nothing."

"Don't give me that. It needs attention. Can you still walk?"

He tried a few steps, uncomfortable but not unduly so. "Right. I live half a mile on. Come along and I'll patch you up."

"I really don't want to be any trouble."

"It's no trouble. And there's no call for any heroics. A bit of care now can save a lot of problems later on. I'll have it done in two shakes of a lamb's tail."

"Good lord!"

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing really \- it's just that I haven't heard that expression for years - probably not since my childhood."

"One of my grandmother's," the woman explained. "I don't know what brought it to mind just now."

Henry's knee was stiffening, but he managed to walk the half mile without too conspicuous a limp. One of the dogs brought him a stick, which he dutifully threw for it. "Careful - you'll have a job for life!" warned the woman, who had introduced herself as Anne Cousins and the dogs as Max and Min - the latter being slightly the larger, of course. It occurred to Henry that the job might have its attractions, though he kept that thought to himself. At the cottage Anne bathed and disinfected the rather extensive graze which was still seeping a little, then neatly applied lint and strapping.

"You've done that a few times before, haven't you?"

"Yes, I used to be a nurse - though that was years ago. It's probably why I'm so bossy."

"I wouldn't say that!"

"Plenty do. Oh, are you cold?"

"Just an odd shiver."

"You've probably got a touch of shock. I'll get some coffee."

"You really mustn't put yourself to any more trouble."

"No trouble - I'm having one myself."

The coffee duly appeared, along with a plate of shortbread fingers; particularly good, as Henry commented.

"My grandmother's recipe."

"The lamb's-tail shaker?"

"Yes. I never knew the other one."

"She seems to have been quite an influence."

"She was. My parents did a lot of travelling, so I stayed with her quite often. A wonderful character."

"Sounds as though it would have been good to meet her."

"A bit late now \- although she was still active well into her nineties. But that's her photograph on the mantel. Taken ages ago, mind you."

Henry examined it more closely, and thought there was something familiar about it that he couldn't quite place. Then he felt he had taken up quite enough of Anne's time and ought to go. She asked how far he would have to walk, and he pointed out in the guide book where he had left his car.

"But that's over three miles away!"

"An hour's walk, perhaps a bit more."

"All right normally, I dare say, but the situation isn't normal. I'll run you there in the car."

"That'll be miles round. I really don't want to give you so much trouble."

"Look, you've shown some signs of shock already. That may not be the end of it. If anything happened to you now I'd feel responsible."

"There's really no need ..."

"Anyway, I'm going to be bossy and insist. So there's an end to it."

Henry accepted the inevitable, quite gratefully in fact since although he wasn't going to mention it, he did feel a little shaky. The track down to the road was rather rough and Anne warned him to protect the injured knee against knocking on the shelf in front, padded though it was. The route was indeed quite a long way round and Henry fell into a doze before being awakened by the car's stopping. "Oh, I am sorry - I didn't mean to be so appallingly rude."

Anne laughed. "Don't worry. My father always had to have a snooze at some time during the day. Any time would do. Probably because he never got to bed before midnight, or so Mum said. Anyway, I suppose that's your car over there."

Henry alighted, disguising the stiffness as best he could. "You've been marvellous, Anne. I really don't know how to thank you."

"No need. It was little enough. Adds some variety to life, though. By the way, when you have a chance, soak that bloodstain in cold water with a little soap or detergent, then rinse it out thoroughly."

"Right, thanks for the tip - and for everything else. 'Bye!"

He was about to close the door when a thought struck him. "Oh, Anne ..."

"Yes?"

"I wondered ..."

"What?"

"Would you ... could you dine with me this evening?"

"Well, I don't usually ... But yes, why not? Where are you staying?"

Henry explained. "But it doesn't have to be there ..."

"Don't worry, that will be fine. What time?"

"They like to have you in the dining room fairly smartish about seven, although there's a little slack. They can't serve everyone at once."

"Right. So I'll see you about quarter to?"

Henry agreed, waved her off and started his own car. Then he realised that he'd got no further with his real errand - not a good start to the week. Still, it was possible that Anne might know something useful about the property he was supposed to be investigating; after all, it must be one of her closest neighbours. Something else was nagging at the back of his mind, but try as he might, he couldn't think what. What needed more immediate attention was that he was unfamiliar with the etiquette of dating - with a shock, he realised that that was what he was doing - and wondered if he ought to have a little gift for her; a bunch of flowers perhaps. On reflection, he thought it would probably be overdoing things at this stage. This stage? Did that mean he was thinking of pursuing it further?

This alarming notion was overshadowed by coming unexpectedly upon a sharp bend in the road, and he dismissed it to concentrate belatedly on his driving. It wouldn't do to smash himself up completely before the evening. Or any other time, he reminded himself. Was he building too much on the prospect suddenly presented to him? Did he really want to? Oh, to hell with it - navigation was quite enough to think about for now.

The hotel made no difficulties about his inviting a guest for dinner, and produced a respectable meal; not fancy, but good food well prepared, and the wine came at least up to Henry's standard of appreciation. Anne had disclaimed any knowledge but seemed well satisfied with it. The waitress asked if they would like coffee in the lounge - "It's all right, sir, that lot who were making such a racket last night have gone somewhere else."

Anne agreed, and on the way slyly commented that there was now no excuse for suggesting a tête-à-tête in his room. "Oh - did you ... were you ...?"

"Don't worry, Henry, I wasn't planning to seduce you. Even in this age it would probably raise a few eyebrows here. And I wasn't accusing you of lecherous intent, either. Though it might be rather flattering if ..."

"I suppose I'm a bit strait-laced myself."

"I thought you might be. No bad thing either. So let's have our coffee - you can have a brandy or something if you like, but I'm driving - and then I'm going to ask you a favour."

"What's that?"

"After the coffee!"

Meanwhile Henry wondered if she knew anything about the model village he had been examining when she found him.

"I asked about that when I first moved up here, but didn't get very far. I thought the librarian might help - they tend to go in for local history - but he could only tell me that it was reputed to be of a real place, though no one seemed to know where. It had been made generations ago, of course. Do you have a particular interest?"

"Nothing I can define. But I've a feeling that somehow it isn't altogether unfamiliar."

"Funny you should say that. Granny came on a visit a year or two before she died, and she said something of the sort when I took her to see it. That farmhouse you nearly dived into reminded her of one where she'd lived many years ago. Of course, there's nothing particularly distinctive about it; there must be hundreds more or less alike around the country."

Henry wondered whether to say that her grandmother's photograph also rang a bell with him, only the waitress came up at that point to ask if they would like anything else to drink, and the moment passed.

"Now, what's this mysterious favour you were going to ask?"

Anne explained that the owner of a large house nearby had recently died and it was apparently about to be put up for sale; a relative living elsewhere had somehow heard about it and was interested for a reason so far unexplained but probably to do with a hotel business, asking her to take a careful look at it and report on its character, facilities and condition. Anne hadn't been sure that she was up to it, "especially as estate agents never take women seriously" - Henry stifled a protest - and would be grateful for his company on the inspection. A provisional arrangement had been made with the key-holder, for the following day as it happened, but it could be altered if that were inconvenient.

Henry could hardly believe his good fortune, but yes, the location tallied with what he had been given for his own commission. Feeling a little guilty at what amounted to a minor and necessary deception, he agreed without mentioning his own interest. Anne telephoned to confirm her arrangement, and found a slight complication; would there be any objection if someone else joined them for the visit? None occurred to him, at least none that would be at all plausible, so that was settled. Anne provided directions for collecting her the following morning, then after a few minutes of casual chat said that she had better get back to see to the dogs. Henry escorted her to her car, wondering silently if he had been adequate as a host. "Thank you - I enjoyed that," although not effusive seemed tolerably reassuring, especially when reinforced by a quick peck on the cheek. "See you tomorrow."

In the circumstances Henry half-expected a rosier version of his recurrent dream in one form or another, but instead found himself chasing a banana through the convoluted aisles of a vast supermarket, hampered by a wooden leg and a loose shoe-lace. He never caught it.

In the morning he duly called for Anne, who navigated him to the house in question. They were a little early, and Henry was able to examine most of the exterior; so far as he could see, it was well maintained, with chimneys recently re-pointed and no obvious decay in the woodwork. He noted a lack of the double glazing that he would have expected in the upland climate, but perhaps there were local restrictions on the character of modernisation. They had to wait only a few minutes more for the key-holder, who told them that there was to be yet another addition to the party - did they mind? Henry shrugged; "The more the merrier" - after all, the less conspicuous his own activities would be.

Then another car drew up and the driver emerged. To Henry's surprise it turned out to be Jim Fraser, who also seemed a little taken aback, surreptitiously signalling for silence. A woman with him was presumably the sister he had mentioned. The key-holder explained the new situation, again accepted without demur. The final arrivals proved to be the amorous couple from the hotel, causing Henry to think that coincidence was piling up a bit too thick; what on earth was going on? He recalled a book in which various apparently unconnected characters on a conducted tour proved to be members of a criminal conspiracy gathered in the course of their plot, but it seemed rather far-fetched to suppose that anything of the sort was going on here.

He managed to have a few words aside with Fraser, who also had been surprised by the appearance of the love-birds. For his part, his editor had been given a hint that something about the place was likely to prove worth investigating, but without any idea of what.

"Have you found any clues yet?"

"Not a thing, but I'm taking photographs. They may show up something I haven't spotted myself."

"What sort of thing?"

"No idea. They may be significant to someone else, though. What's your interest?"

"Oh, I'm just accompanying a friend."

"You seem to be taking remarkably detailed notes." But then the others joined them and Henry was spared having to think up a reason on the spur of the moment.

Back at Anne's cottage Henry begged paper on which he could transcribe his notes more fully - not to say legibly - and she asked if he fancied an omelette, as she usually had only a light lunch. It suited him well enough. They had barely finished when the telephone rang and Anne answered it. Henry tried not to overhear but couldn't miss the exclamation of astonishment.

"Guess what," said Anne on returning.

"I've no idea."

"No, of course not - it was just an expression. That was Mum."

"Oh, yes?" - with a rather unconvincing pretence of interest.

"She's found something about a model village that she thinks is probably the one over there, but isn't sure. She thinks I'll be interested and suggested coming over tomorrow afternoon to check. Can you join us?"

It was a fortunate coincidence, and of course he could (it was surely too early to worry about any possible significance in "meeting the family"), so thus it was arranged.

Mum turned out to be a very alert lady of about seventy, clearly related to the portrait on Anne's mantel. "Have we met somewhere before?" she asked on being introduced, eyeing Henry quizzically.

"Not as far as I can remember."

"Oh well, never mind. At my age practically everyone I meet reminds me of someone else, or I imagine it does. So you've been helping Anne with that enquiry of Julia's, I gather."

"The least I could do, after her kindness."

"What was that?"

"Patching me up after I fell and hurt a knee."

"Evidently you found the right time and place to do it."

Asked if she would like tea before visiting the site or afterwards, Mum opted to get on first with the business in hand. At the model she produced the paper she had found and to her great satisfaction compared the photograph in it with what was unmistakably the reality, then slapped her knee and exclaimed "Got it!"

"What?"

"Where I thought I'd seen you before. You remind me of a young lad who used to come to the farm for milk and eggs. His parents spent a summer holiday with him camping in the paddock. Do you remember, Anne?"

"Sorry, no"

"No, of course, silly of me. You were only two at the time."

Henry was intrigued. "Whereabouts was that?"

"Over to the east - just outside Kirkby Malzeard."

"Extraordinary! My mother used to speak of camping near there for years afterwards. And of the farmer's kindness."

"So it was you!"

"It looks rather like it. But I lost all memories of that time in an accident. At least I thought it was all of them, only the other night something of it came back to me. And for a while before that I had dreams of the place - but in those it had obviously fallen on hard times."

"Why yes; it actually did. We moved to a bigger farm the next year, and the people who took over were - well, not terribly good husbandmen. And there was something else - rumours about a rather disreputable incident. Oh yes, that was it: they were suspected of being involved when a young child disappeared nearby."

"Did anything come of it?"

"I don't think so. Not enough evidence, most likely."

Conversation for the next hour or so hovered around the coincidence of meeting again so long afterwards, then turned to family matters in which Henry had no part so made his excuses to leave. There was no opportunity for making any further arrangements, and Henry realised with something of a pang that there was no real reason to expect any. But an opportunity could probably be made, and he spent the evening mulling over the revelations of past history - and perhaps over rather too many whiskies.

He had failed to set the alarm and awoke later than intended, with a decidedly muzzy head. It took him a while to realise where he was, and he was still rather confused when he picked up his newspaper, which startled him with a date earlier than he had expected. Then understanding dawned, and he chuckled: quite an extraordinary dream sequence! He winced; he had been lying awkwardly and an old knee injury was decidedly stiff, but a brisk walk to the office would probably loosen it. It also gave him a chance to ponder the plausibility or otherwise of incidents from a forgotten childhood surfacing in dreams. The amnesia was true enough.

Ted greeted him with a cheerful "Hello, overslept, have you?"

"Yes, sorry."

"It doesn't matter. We aren't rushed off our feet. But something's come up."

"Oh, what's that?"

"I've just heard from Anne - "

Henry was startled. "Anne?"

"Yes, my cousin in Harrogate. You met her a couple of years ago when she came for a break after her husband died."

"Oh, yes, of course. A pleasant woman."

"Yes, I thought at the time you seemed mildly interested."

"Did I?"

"But that's by the way. She's normally quite sane, but for some reason she's taken it into her head to fancy buying an old farmhouse up on the moors."

"Good lord!"

"Yes, and she wants me to go and look it over for her."

"Er - whereabouts on the moors?"

"Why? Do you have a particular interest?"

"No - well, yes, in a way, but it would take a lot of explaining. Another time, perhaps."

"I shan't hold my breath. The point is that I'm a bit tied up now. With Sheila just about to produce a young Edward, or whatever the female equivalent is, I don't want to be dashing off to the back of beyond."

"I don't think you can reasonably call Harrogate that!"

"This place is somewhere well outside Ripon. What I'm coming to is, would you mind doing it for me? I think it will just about qualify as a business trip."

Henry had an uncomfortable feeling that coincidences were piling up again, and wondered just how far they were likely to go. "All right. When is it to be?"

"You know women \- well, perhaps you don't. It has to be as soon as possible - this afternoon, if you can make it."

"Today!"

"Yes, it's just about possible. Go by car so you don't have to worry about catching trains. Oh, and in case of contingencies, it might be wise to take an overnight bag."

"What sort of contingencies do you have in mind?"

"Not that one! Though on consideration ... But you might get stuck for some reason."

"Fair enough. Any special instructions?"

"Yes; for goodness' sake try to get some sense into her. She's got a perfectly good place of her own, in a decent neighbourhood with people she likes around her, and she's never been one for the solitary life. As for farming ... I really can't think what's got into her. See if you can talk her out of it; she might take more notice of you than me. But be honest; she's bright enough to see if you're pulling the wool over her eyes."

On the way Henry wondered about this Anne. According to Ted, she had been sad at the funeral but not heartbroken; the marriage had been of affection rather than wild romance, with no children. However, Harold had been a sensible, reliable friend and husband - qualities not over-abundant these days - and she would miss him badly. Henry did remember her slightly, and inevitably wondered if the impression might have inspired his dream. However, he wouldn't have thought it great enough to trigger even the parts he could remember of such an elaborate fantasy. On the other hand, now that he thought of it, the surname unconsciously wished apparently at random on her namesake could have been significant.

She proved to be a good deal livelier now, and chatted happily over a light lunch, asking about Ted and interested in his impending parenthood. "And how about you - have you found a wife yet? Or - " she added, perhaps showing more insight into his character than he would have expected on such brief acquaintance, " - has a wife found you?"

He laughed it off, but couldn't help wondering if there was anything behind the question. She, it seemed, was still completely unattached. She offered coffee, but he thought it best to proceed to business.

Heading northwards from Harrogate and passing a sign to Fountains Abbey, they got rather lost in a tangle of minor roads and took a while to find the right way. It was late afternoon by the time they found the place. The track up to the farmhouse was rather overgrown but still easily passable. One of the fields had just been ploughed and the birds were making the most of the pickings; the ploughman called a greeting and said to go on up to the house where he would be with them in a minute or two. "So the farm is still worked," Henry commented.

"Yes, by a neighbour. It's only the house itself that's for sale."

"Ted couldn't understand why you wanted it, when you were so well settled."

"Oh, good heavens, didn't I explain? I'm not thinking of actually living here \- not my scene at all. It would simply be for rent as a holiday home."

"Phew! He'll be glad of that!"

The door opened at a push and they found themselves in the kitchen. Henry would hardly have been surprised to find a motherly woman prepared to dispense milk and eggs, but there was no one. He looked around, fragments of half-recovered memory flitting through his mind, and had he allowed it could easily have convinced himself that this was indeed the place of his childhood holiday - after all, it was in the right area. But that would surely be stretching coincidence beyond all reason.

The minute or two stretched to ten and Anne suggested that they might as well make use of the time by exploring a little. A corridor led to an open door though which light could be seen streaming into the room beyond. Even so the air was rather chilly, and once inside, Henry tried to close the door against a draught, but it resisted. Anne gasped slightly, and Henry was concerned to see that she had turned deathly pale. "Are you all right, Anne?"

She had difficulty in speaking and seemed horror-struck. "Oh, Henry ..."

"What is it?"

"Let's get out of here!"

"Why? Whatever's the matter?"

"It's ... Don't think me crazy, but I'm sure - I know - that something absolutely dreadful happened in this room. I can feel it."

She shivered, shrinking against him, and without conscious thought his hand went protectively round her waist, a gesture he had never ventured with any woman. She didn't seem to mind, and indeed slipped hers around him as they retreated. He rather liked the sensation.

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THE EMPRESS OF CHINA

Time inevitably takes its toll. I had hung on to the old house as long as possible, but eventually had to recognise that it was physically and financially too much for me, and I should have to move. At least for the time being I was spared the indignity of a care home, but it was still a wrench; not only that, there was a lifetime's accumulation of junk to clear. Most of it had no doubt lost any value it ever possessed, but some things were surely worth passing on even if I no longer wished to keep them myself.

Sorting out the collection would have been a daunting prospect but for one of my cousins - goodness knows how many times removed, in both senses of the word - who was used to the job and volunteered to help. She was one of the more sensible members in a generally scatty family, years earlier I had helped her husband to set up in business, and she was not one to forget a favour. She was also congenial company, and since Gordon's death had visited fairly often.

This time she brought along one of her grandchildren, a bright and lively girl of about eight left in her care to allow the parents a well-earned holiday by themselves. While Daphne and I fetched down a packing case that had been too awkward for me to manage alone, young Sarah amused herself with the contents of a smaller box that I had previously moved out of the way without particular attention. As we manoeuvred the case through a doorway barely wide enough to take it, she looked up holding a clear plastic object about a couple of inches high, rather like a chess pawn. "Uncle Henry, what's this?"

It was something that with bitter regret I had previously given up for lost. How it came to be in the box was a mystery, but such things happen all too often and simply have to be accepted. As Sarah wiped away a speck of grime, a stream of coloured lights like a miniature firework display streaked away from that point and bounced around the interior, gradually fading. Wherever she rubbed, much the same would happen except that the colours and pathways changed, the brilliance varying with the degree of friction. She was fascinated, and spent the next three hours investigating the possibilities without exhausting them, so it was quite obvious how that little toy would have to be disposed.

Seeing it took me back a good many years. In the early twenty-twenties, the government of China had decided that the country's enormous wealth, power and influence warranted a return to an imperial constitution. In view of the outcry among the remaining independent states in eastern Asia, this was emphasised to be a purely symbolic change, in that the emperor would have little more than decorative functions. He would therefore not be from the world of politics at all, but internationally distinguished in some other way, and after much discussion the choice fell upon a concert pianist who like several of his kind had achieved great success in the west - that is, until his hands were mangled in a motor accident, and surgical repairs were not quite good enough for continuing performances. To give the position some substance he was in effect put in charge of official patronage in the arts and sciences, with considerable latitude in dispensing it.

Political fashions changed, as they do, and when the emperor died from residual complications of his accident while still relatively young and without issue, the appointment was not repeated. Cynics suggested that the possibility had been a consideration from the start. Nevertheless his widow, a capable and widely respected woman, took over his work to rather better effect, and in his memory set up a series of scholarships in the arts and awards for promising scientific developments. Some of these were open to international competition.

A few years later I was running a small contract research laboratory, and during a slack period had an idea of my own that seemed worth pursuing, only none of my usual customers would take it on. Someone pointed out an advertisement inviting applications for the next round of Imperial China awards, and it seemed interesting. I was vaguely aware of the scheme from odd items in the news, there was nothing to lose by trying, at least in the first instance, so I sent in an application. Evidently it passed successfully through the early documentary stages of selection, as I was invited to Beijing to present my proposals in more detail.

The less said of the journey the better. Still, I got there, and despite the jet lag and anxiety managed a few hours' sleep. Formalities at the palace seemed interminable, but I supposed security was as much an issue there as anywhere else, and although the invitation and evidence of identity were scrutinised in more than usual detail it was all done with perfect courtesy. Eventually I was shown to a waiting room that was comfortable if no better equipped with reading matter than the usual dentist's, a book bought in the departure lounge failed to hold my attention, and I had a horrible dread of falling asleep at the crucial time. Fortunately the fear itself probably kept me awake.

Besides the usual opportunist insertions by the tourist boards, hotel associations and so on, the invitation package had included the procedure for candidates who reached this stage: there would be a technical presentation to a panel of experts, followed by a more general interview possibly with the Empress herself to discuss what might follow a successful award. The presentation held only familiar terrors, but the other puzzled me. Would it be a mere formality, or did more hang upon it - whether my face fitted, or not? There was no telling. What really interested me just then was whether it would be with the Empress, as I hadn't had the nerve to ask, and if so what she might be like.

I hadn't thought to look up anything particular about her, but as the wife of an international performer she would probably have visited the west at least occasionally, or so I thought. Presumably, too, she spoke some English, or this interview wouldn't take place, though it might be only a few phrases learned parrot-fashion. I didn't even know what she really looked like, as the pictures I'd seen were in full ceremonial rig and gave hardly any impression of the person inside.

I was evidently almost the last of the applicants to be considered that day, and the one before me took a little more than the allotted time; I was kept twiddling my thumbs and wondering about the prospects, as the panel had been studiously non-committal. About a quarter of an hour passed, so there was clearly more than formality involved. An assistant then appeared with "The Empress will see you now, Doctor Latimer" and ushered me into the presence.

It was a shock. Thinking back to the Moguls I had half-imagined a vast audience chamber with a throne on a towering pedestal and a figure of oriental magnificence - pure fantasy, of course, as I fully realised. It was still surprising, however, to find instead a rather small, ordinary office with a plain desk, and at it a middle-aged, grey-haired woman of obviously European descent, in a simple blue-grey business suit, greeting me with a smile of kindly amusement. "You seem surprised, Dr. Latimer."

That was the greatest shock of all: the last thing I might have expected was the distinct Lancashire accent. "Well, yes," I stuttered.

"Don't worry, everyone is. Don't let it distract you. Just to save your wondering, I was a music teacher in Manchester when Chang gave a recital and needed a page-turner, and we clicked. Now, to business ..."

It had been stressed that candidates selected to present their case to the Empress or her personal representative should avoid technical detail and concentrate on more general issues, so I had prepared accordingly. We were well into my spiel when the assistant reappeared, apologised and whispered a message that evidently disturbed the routine. "Is he still there?"

"Yes, but he has to go very soon if he's to catch his plane."

"Hmm." She consulted a document. "Well, it shouldn't take long ... Get a taxi to stand by for him. Dr. Latimer, there's a young man outside who's suddenly been called home to a family emergency - would you mind waiting for another few minutes while I deal with him?"

You don't refuse an empress, however humble her origins, so I waited. The other man looked really distressed when we passed on his way in, and I suppressed suspicions of mere queue-jumping.

Afterwards, the rest of my interview went without further interruption. Then the Empress sat back and pondered a while in silence. Eventually, "I'm sorry to keep you on tenterhooks, Dr. Latimer, but you've presented me with a difficulty. You'll realise, I'm sure, that I know very little about any of the subjects involved in these awards, and for that I have to rely on my advisers. It's always a difficult task to rank such different topics, and this year they find it quite impossible to break a tie on merit between your application and another. So the decision has to be my own. And it has to be essentially based on judgements of personality and circumstance. On this very slight acquaintance, my impression - right or wrong - is that you are the more likely to succeed without my help. So the award goes to your rival. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but there it is."

I mumbled something about appreciating her consideration, and expected a conventional form of dismissal, but instead she then turned to a box that had appeared on her desk during my temporary absence. It held half a dozen objects of the kind that long afterwards intrigued Sarah, and the Empress took one out, stroking it in various places and gravely contemplating the display within. Then with a smile, "The young man you so kindly allowed to come in just now left these behind as examples of his work. Maybe to save having to pack them for his flight home, but let's not be too cynical. Would you like to have this - as a memento?"

"Well, yes - and thank you very much!"

"Good. Now, I wish you a good journey - and do be sure to vindicate my judgement!"

Back home over the next few months, I looked out for any signs that Mathers (I got the name from the appointments timetable) had had any success with his triboluminescent baubles, and in November advertisements appeared for Christmas tree decorations of that kind. They apparently sold quite well for several years until some other novelty displaced them in the public fancy. In pantomime the material seemed an obvious choice for Aladdin's lamp, although it was found to be rather too sensitive and unless very carefully handled could be a troublesome distraction. As a more serious application, it was promoted in the form of self-illuminating handrails for public stairways, but proved too expensive for the rather limited benefit. In time it became little more than a historical curiosity.

In later life I met Mathers occasionally and found him a decent sort. He had just about broken even overall on that project, but did better with others and ended up with a fairly profitable business. He had modest tastes so that was all he wanted, and at least it didn't attract take-over sharks. Anyway, having one way or another given much innocent pleasure to a whole generation of children was cause for satisfaction in itself; few people could claim so much.

I also kept an eye open more intently for news about the Empress, whose personality had deeply impressed me. Odd items appeared about her opening an institution here or addressing a conference there. Otherwise not much of substance came up until the 2050s. Then there was a great deal about relief operations after the disasters that struck China in that decade - the terrible flu epidemic of '51, the earthquakes that devastated Chengdu and Chongqing in '54, and the collapse of the Three Gorges dam soon afterwards with appalling destruction downstream. Hints between the lines suggested strongly that in such emergencies, the politicians' response had been hopelessly bungled and inadequate, crippled by bureaucracy and corruption, until she took over and swept such obstacles aside. By the time discontent in the provinces broke out into open civil war in 2057, she was evidently the only one with prestige enough to deal effectively with the warlords for humanitarian purposes.

She was visiting an orphanage in Xian to supervise evacuation from the battle zone during a truce she had negotiated for the purpose, when someone - accidentally, it was claimed, but the man thought responsible was lynched - let off an artillery shell that set the building alight. She organised the terrified staff, some to shepherd the children, some to delay the advance of the fire if they couldn't actually stop it. Most of them got out eventually, and so did all but one of the children, but she didn't. According to one report, she was last seen searching for the stray.

All this passed through my mind as Daphne and I laboured over the contents of my loft, and I told it to her when we took a break. Sarah meanwhile listened, goggle-eyed at the climax, clutching the bauble; I'd never known her so quiet for so long. Daphne had evidently read my intentions and protested that I couldn't possibly part with so precious a souvenir, but at that Sarah looked so downcast that it would have been a crime to deprive her of it. Daphne reluctantly agreed, contenting herself with insisting that it should be kept in a sturdy presentation box with a copy of the story, that Mummy and Daddy should always take care of it and that it should be a family secret - no lending to friends on any account. "And," I added, "whenever you look at it, spare a thought for a very great and gracious lady."

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## THE HAND

It puzzled him. The hand lay inert at the edge of his field of vision, a withered, fleshless thing, almost like the foot of some great bird except that instead of gracefully curved and pointed talons, it ended in broken and distorted fingernails. He could not understand what it was doing there, nor why he was completely unable to move his head and trace the wrist, arm and shoulder to which it was presumably attached. Or was it? He remembered something of that old horror story, 'The beast with five fingers', about the severed but murderously-animated hand sent for reasons he could not recall to someone who must have mortally offended its original owner.

This hand however showed no such inclination, but rested placidly on the bed cover. Why had he not noticed its arrival? Of course, he had been asleep. Not only asleep, but dreaming, and for once he could remember vividly quite a lot of the dream.

He was back in his late teens, rejoicing in being allowed to look after a motorcycle belonging to his mate Arthur, who was doing time after an affray in which someone in a rival gang had been all but killed. Obviously he had to make sure it was kept in good running order, and he did so more conscientiously than Arthur would have approved had he known. It gave him an opportunity to impress Janice next door, whom he had fancied for months without the slightest encouragement. Now she almost jumped at the chance when one Saturday he suggested a run out for a bar lunch at a pub he knew in the countryside.

It was a beautiful spring day, and on the way they stopped in a forested area at a lay-by well screened from the road by trees. Traffic noise was still annoying so they moved further back from it into a small clearing. Janice was amused by a group of chaffinches, evidently used to being fed, loudly demanding their usual tribute, but he had nothing to give them. She found the spare leathers uncomfortably hot in the sun and took off the top; then she practically invited more familiarities than he would have dared to hope.

That put a good deal more oomph into his riding when, rather later than he had intended, they set off again. He was showing off, and knew it, but over the meal could not resist drinking a little more than he really should, and afterwards riding considerably faster. He knew the road and was confident of negotiating all its hazards. Janice was exhilarated at first and that moved him to show off even more, to the extent that she tried to urge a little caution on him, but he took no notice; none, that is, until a large car pulled out of a side turning directly in front of him. He was thrown into a hedge and came off fairly lightly, but the bike was a write-off. So was Janice.

That was the dream. In reality Janice had survived, but hopelessly crippled, and spent the remaining dozen years of her life in one institution or another. Technically it was not his fault, but he knew perfectly well that if he had been less reckless, he could at least have mitigated the crash and probably avoided it altogether. The guilt of that knowledge made him by far the most boring driver among his acquaintance, once he had regained the nerve to contemplate driving at all. As for motorcycles, he now abhorred them.

Nevertheless, something had clicked in his mind when a particularly obnoxious great-nephew, who knew the story and had recently acquired a machine of his own, taunted him with his timidity and offered a derisive bet that he couldn't even balance the thing now. He was damned if he was going to stand for that sort of cheek, and to the lad's horrified astonishment accepted the challenge. It was utterly stupid, of course, and he had come to grief; hence all the strapping round his chest, the plaster on his arm and the neck-brace that prevented him from tilting his head forward.

A female voice interrupted his recollections. "Come along, Mr. Armstrong ..." (what an absurdly inappropriate name in the circumstances!) "... time for your medication." Why on earth did he have to be bothered with such things? He didn't need medication. A penalty for his own folly, he supposed however, and tried to comply. At last, as it moved feebly, he recognised that claw-like hand on the bed cover. It was his own.

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##  ERNSCAR

##

Ernscar Castle was small as castles go, but still impressive. Geoffrey Randall always boasted to visitors that it had stood for nine hundred years or more, and would usually add, rather unnecessarily, "on the same spot" as though some previous owner might have taken it into his head to transfer the whole edifice from a different site. Complete buildings have been moved, true, but not to such a position, perched on the tallest outcrop of rock for miles around - the Erne Scar of the name.

In fact not much of the original building remained: over the centuries it had been modified extensively, with re-fashioning under the Tudors after it had been left partly ruined for years from a siege in the Wars of the Roses, serious damage in the Civil War, repair some time after the Restoration by a lord who had been kind to the young Nell Gwyn in the last years of the Commonwealth, disastrous "improvements" in the 18th century and a much more successful modernisation in the style of Lutyens in the early 20th. Nevertheless the Norman keep was still discernible as the basis of the structure.

Geoffrey was inclined to be fanciful about his forebears, but one thing he never attempted to claim was descent from the original builders or any of their successors. He had simply bought the place when it came on the market just after his wife's winning the lottery jackpot roughly coincided with the take-over of the business that he had built up from scratch into a very successful enterprise, and after forty years of hard work he relished the idea of turning himself into a country gentleman of leisure. However, a genealogy commissioned by his wife as a retirement present tentatively suggested a connection with one Thomas Miller who had been jester to Lord Ernscar in the fifteenth century and might or might not have been the original "Tom-Fool," but whose notorious tight-fistedness belied the proverb that "a fool and his money are easily parted." Geoffrey himself was by no means stingy, although careful in considering any substantial expenditure. He heeded his wife's warning that money could never buy respect, and anyway there was much less than she had expected left over after the necessary refurbishment of the building, so he gave time instead to various local organisations. He didn't talk unnecessarily about his involvement, but it became known, and the general view among the villagers was that he was "not a bad sort, for an off-comer."

The Randalls had one son, John, unmarried. He had lived away ever since taking his first job but visited whenever his other commitments permitted. Helen often contrived at such times to invite eligible young women for meals or social events, but despite some tentative nibbles, the fish never seriously took the bait. He said he was too busy for that sort of thing. Helen suspected that life in the city was not strictly monastic, but kept her thoughts to herself, and John himself never mentioned a girl friend until quite out of the blue he asked if he could bring one to stay for the weekend. This threw Helen into a tizzy of preparations, and having a traditional view of morality, she carefully prepared a spare room, aired the bed, put out perfumed soap and new towels, and despite an anxious thought about the possibility of hay fever, added a couple of vases of flowers. The room was fairly near John's, but some distance from her own; if there was to be any traffic between the two she didn't want to know about it.

She was of course consumed with curiosity about what the girl would be like. For no particular reason she imagined a willowy blonde out of a fashion plate, with half a dozen degrees in modern languages and business studies, and a habit of reading Wittgenstein in bed - at any rate when not ... She quickly banished that thought.

In the event, when the two arrived, Anne proved quite different from expectations: a shade on the plump side, by no means beautiful though pleasant-looking enough, neatly but not elaborately groomed and dressed, interested in the garden, cheerful and friendly without gushing. On Geoffrey, who prided himself as a judge of character, the first impression was favourable and confirmed by better acquaintance. Helen was in any case predisposed to like the girl and found no reason for any other opinion, apart perhaps from a tendency to tease John rather sharply about various little oddities that he had picked up over the years. He didn't seem to mind.

The weekend passed happily and was the first of many, to the extent that Helen began to think seriously about the prospects of an undeniable excuse for buying a really expensive new hat, but there was no sign of any developments in that direction. Having unintentionally choked one promising relationship by asking too early to have it defined, she bit back the questions she was dying to ask, but privately wondered whether anything was ever going to come of it. "Patience," urged Geoffrey. "He'll tell us in his own good time."

In truth there was little to tell. Anne enjoyed John's company, and would have liked to make it permanent, but sensed that he was less keen on the idea and was reluctant to risk a make-or-break confrontation. John in fact was in much the same quandary. Both had been single long enough to appreciate the advantages as well as the drawbacks of that state, and so the misunderstanding continued, only gradually putting a cloud on the relationship.

The first sign of Anne's being rather less stolid than everyone assumed came one morning during a visit when, asked if she had slept well, she avoided a direct answer, but later wondered apparently in all seriousness whether there were any stories of haunting at the castle. "Not that I know of. Are you interested in that sort of thing?"

"Not specially; I just wondered."

"Have you heard any rumours, Geoffrey?"

"Not a thing. But then I don't suppose I should. What brings it to mind?"

It turned out that as it was a fine, warm night, Anne had left the window open. She awakened in the early hours as the light of the setting moon fell on an old picture in the room, and experienced an overwhelming sensation of sadness that seemed more strongly reflected than she remembered in the features of the young woman portrayed there. Fortunately there were no more tangible manifestations, though she had dozed fitfully for the rest of the night.

There was some mystery about that painting. A note in the Tudor records showed that the picture had been found during renovations, and a letter from the then Lord Ernscar to his cousin mentioned that it was being re-framed as a birthday gift to his lady who thought it interesting despite its technical deficiencies. A scribble on the back, even then barely decipherable and subsequently covered by a backing that was hardly worth removing, seemed to indicate that it represented the daughter of the mediaeval Thomas Miller, although why so lowly a character should have been painted no one knew, nor why that portrait alone from the period should have been preserved. A search of the parish register had shown the baptism of an Alison Miller in 1418, but nothing about her marriage or death, and there was no chance of checking the register in modern times as it was lost in the 17th century.

During one of Anne's later visits, the Randalls were entertaining an old student friend of Geoffrey's who had astounded the acquaintance of his youth by going on to become a professor of theology. He had an amateur interest in art history, and Anne took the opportunity to ask if he could deduce anything about the painting. "I'm afraid it isn't of the best quality, but of course you already know that. I think we can safely say that it isn't by one of the known masters, unless a very early student effort, possibly preserved for some sentimental reason. At a guess it's probably of the Flemish school, 15th century or thereabouts, but if you want anything more definite you'd better get a real expert on the job."

He had been John's godfather and still took an interest in his activities, so during dinner was eager for the latest news. Geoffrey was more interested in the professor's. "Quite an interesting conference in Louvain last April. Otherwise the usual grind. Lectures, tutorials, seminars, trying to keep up the flow of learned papers. These days it's 'Publish or be damned,' you know."

Geoffrey, who on religious matters remained agnostic, couldn't resist taking up one of the usual arguments. "Talking of damnation, Brian, what I've never really had out with you is the insistence on a supposedly loving God who can condemn someone to eternal punishment for mistakes made in life. It seems totally inconsistent."

"You've got the wrong idea - not surprising; it's very common. Suffering, yes, but not punishment. More a natural consequence, in the same way as a hang-over after a binge. And the condemnation is by the person himself."

"What do you mean? It sounds nonsensical."

Brian accepted a refill of his glass and settled himself for a dissertation. "Hell, I think, is simply the state of rejecting a God who won't force his company on those who ultimately decide they don't want it."

This time Helen interrupted, "But surely no one would want to reject it."

"Don't you believe it. Love - real love - is sometimes the most difficult thing in the world to accept. Believe me, I know. Eventually it means a total surrender, abandoning all the defences. And not everyone is willing to make it. With the best will in the world, it can take a lifetime's effort. I couldn't do it, not yet, not without a lot of help."

"Not even for the sake of eternal happiness?"

"It wouldn't be happiness. For a soul clinging to its independence, the love of God would seem like a surgeon's knife, more painful than the alternative."

"And what is that alternative, now we come back to it?"

"The pain of frustration. Like sexual frustration (which is bad enough, heaven knows) but infinitely worse because it's of the whole being, not just one specific function. A being intended for the company of God, and yet refusing it."

Anne broke the ensuing silence. "What about praying for the dead, then? I know some people think it's worth while and others don't. What good could that do?"

"I suppose it could give a helpful nudge to someone who's teetering on the edge, undecided in the last moments of consciousness whether to let go or not. Or it might ease the pain of doing so. After all, the pain comes from resisting the call of love."

Geoffrey snorted. "Anne's talking about someone already dead."

"Don't forget, these are matters of eternity. God isn't limited by time. It's all present to Him. There's a story that Padre Pio was once found praying for a happy death for his father, who'd been gone for ten years."

"At that rate you might as well pray for the redemption of Adam - or Judas Iscariot."

"You can't alter what's already happened in the temporal order, of course, but prayer at any time will have been a factor in determining it. Not changing God's mind - no one can do that, for all the anthropomorphism in a lot of the tales - but helping the poor weak humans who are involved. As for Adam, I don't see why not. It hadn't occurred to me, but it might not be a bad idea at that."

Helen thought of the names on the village war memorial, quite a few related to friends she had made in the area. "What about the services of remembrance? Do they do any real good?"

"Remembrance pure and simple is no good to anyone; it just depresses the living. But there must be many a mental prayer during the two minutes' silence. And C. S. Lewis said something about the courtesy of heaven being to take the best men know as better than they know. When someone is remembered with affection and gratitude, even by an unbeliever, I'm sure it will be taken as a kind of prayer. But good heavens, do we have to stay on such a gloomy subject? John, tell us about that exhibition you and Anne went to see today."

*****

Robert of Ernscar was a minor aristocrat with no wish to be anything more - or less. In the troubled mid-1400s it was enough for him to keep his territory in relative peace amid the factional squabbles that later developed into the Wars of the Roses, and this needed considerable diplomacy besides judicious use of his modest but efficient military force. He wanted no complications from internal dissension, and so dealt firmly with trouble-makers of any kind, but as fairly as he could according to the lights of the time.

It never occurred to him that there was any particular high-mindedness in an essentially pragmatic approach. With neighbours tending to be predatory he needed to be seen as strong, but there would be no sense in making unnecessary enemies of any rank through palpable injustice; an aggrieved peasant behind a hedge with a crude bow and arrow could kill him quite as decisively as a knight with a sword, and with less chance of defending himself. Anyway, in the shortage of labour after the Black Death it would be foolish to aggravate the problems of husbandry through unnecessarily harsh punishments. Nevertheless, a cleric visiting the monastery noted in a letter to his bishop that while Robert's judgements seemed generally reasonable, they might perhaps err towards leniency where offenders were poor and ignorant. With others, who might have less excuse and should have known better, he was more severe.

In this as in many other ways he followed the example set by his father, William. Both Ernscars were intelligent enough to recognise their limitations, and sought counsel on any important issue that was in doubt. Several of the principal tenants and freehold gentry were capable, honest men whom William trusted completely for sound advice on anything within their ken, but he was not so sure of the next generation and realised that it might be wise to cast his net wider. Around 1390 he had given refuge to a party of monks from a neighbouring county where a resurgence of the plague added to problems with the local magnate had made conditions too difficult, and provided them with land and building materials on condition that they set up a school for lads able to benefit from instruction. These came mostly from artisan families, as the gentry employed private tutors while farmers and labourers were considered not to need formal education, or indeed tended to despise it. A stipulation had been that any pupil of particular merit, who did not intend to go into the Church, should be brought to his attention with a view to entering the service of the castle.

One such was Tom, the miller's third son. The family had known hard times during the years of pestilence, and although trade was now better than it had been, supporting three sons and their eventual families in tolerable comfort was likely to be more than the mill could do. Young Tom was a bit of a dreamer, more interested in his grandmother's stories than in the practical matter of running a business where if anything he was more hindrance than help. He was therefore packed off to school out of the way. Brother Eldred had hopes of him as a potential recruit to the community, and for a while this seemed a likely prospect, but later, without actually rebelling, Tom made it clear that his interests were essentially secular. On the recommendation of the Abbot he therefore became an assistant clerk at the castle.

After a few weeks of feeling completely lost, he began to settle down and to come out of his shell. With increasing confidence came signs of a burgeoning wit, and the castle steward was often amused by some of the banter he overheard, enough to pass it on to others of the household. Sometimes that included His Lordship, who eventually had the idea of a jesting competition between Tom and the resident Fool. It went badly for Tom; he was overawed by the occasion and in any case needed a feed for his best sallies, while the Fool, resenting the comparison, put him down mercilessly. William found this highly entertaining. Others of the household who had suffered the sharper edge of Tom's own tongue made no secret of relishing his humiliation, taunting him with it at any opportunity, so that over the following years he became increasingly bitter, his humour darker and crueller.

One exception to the general unkindness was Cedric, the steward, a warm-hearted and conscientious man who felt himself partly responsible for the situation. He encouraged his daughter Rose, whose lively disposition cheered everyone up, to befriend the lad, and she succeeded so far that some years later, to everyone's surprise including perhaps their own, they married. Then there was Lord Robert, much the same age as Tom, who sympathised with his embarrassment in the debacle, took him aside with words of encouragement and a handsome tip, and thereby earned a lifelong devotion. In Tom's later years it was almost the only generous trait left in his increasingly distrustful personality. To the end of his days he never parted with that coin - nor with any other if he could honestly help it.

In the course of time Robert inherited the lordship. He had never liked his father's Fool but in view of long and faithful service had him pensioned off in reasonable comfort (not that he got much thanks for it), and Tom took the position. He had gradually learned what was acceptable in his often caustic humour, and as a rule could judge to a nicety the line between wit and insolence. Fortunately for him, his early errors in straying over that line with Robert had been only gently rebuked except on one occasion that really hurt, and the resulting explosion of wrath, though short-lived, was enough for a lifetime. A raised eyebrow was now sufficient warning of getting on to dangerous ground. In entertaining visiting lords of greater power but less perception, Tom's skill in double meanings caused Robert much concealed amusement. His assessment of the visitors' characters, motives and intentions, if cynical, generally proved remarkably astute, and Robert came to value it highly as a supplement to his own observations.

His lord's approbation won Tom the respect of the household but little affection, and did nothing to mellow his character. His one soft spot was his daughter; Rose had died in childbirth, but the baby survived and was virtually adopted by Cedric's wife Alice, as kindly a soul as her husband. It was some consolation for her own loss. Little Alison grew to be a pretty girl with her mother's cheerful nature, as popular as her father was shunned, and he doted on her almost as much as on his gradually accumulating deposit in the castle strong-room. She had inherited her father's intelligence as well as her mother's good nature, and with some hesitation in taking such a revolutionary step, he taught her reading and writing although without letting it be generally known. As he said, there was no telling when it might come in useful to understand what was on disregarded pieces of paper. "But don't let anyone catch you spying!"

It was while Alison was in her teens that a bishop returning from a visit to the Pope chose to break his journey at Ernscar. He was an old and close friend of Robert's, with much to discuss about the troubles of the time and how men of influence and good sense might best mitigate the impending evils, so stayed for several days. In a lighter vein, he also had news of cultural developments on the continent. Depressed by the still degenerate state of Rome after the Avignon papacy and the subsequent chaos with rival claimants to the office in both cities, he had stayed for a month at an abbey in Flanders headed by a relative, in order to refresh his spirits, and been greatly taken by the work of painters following the school of van Eyck.

So had his favourite page Nicholas, who liked to dabble in the art with results that the bishop found quite pleasing. The guest-master at the abbey was well acquainted with local workshops where the new techniques were practised, and glad to introduce Nicholas to several of them when opportunities happened to coincide. Meanwhile the bishop, with plenty of congenial company, a good library to explore, and attentive service from the abbey staff, needed little from his own retinue and allowed Nicholas more than usual leisure to pursue his personal interests. He used much of it to follow up some of the introductions.

One of the master painters, hoping for a commission from the bishop, thought to gain favour by giving the lad a few hours' tuition, and let him try his hand in a corner of one of the works in hand, to tolerably satisfactory effect. "Quite passable, for a novice," was the verdict, "it won't want much retouching. But don't give up the day job. With time and good fortune you may make a good judge of other people's work, but I doubt whether your own will ever be serious competition!" The bishop was interested to see the piece, and took the opportunity to buy one from stock; not quite what the master had hoped, but any sale was better than none. In an indulgent mood after a pleasant sojourn, the bishop also bought a basic set of materials and equipment for Nicholas. Now that the party appeared to be settled for a while at Ernscar, he was eager to use it.

His first attempt was to sketch out a simple interior, but he soon tired of its stiffness, and instead started on a still life in the kitchen until he was chased out for getting in the way. Returning to the interior view, he was dabbing away in a desultory manner when Alison paused on her way through on some errand, and looked critically over his shoulder. "You've drawn that box wrong."

"What do you mean?"

"The other end's narrower than this one."

"Well, that's how it looks."

"But not how it is."

"Look, the idea isn't to ..."

At that point Alice appeared and chivvied Alison to hurry up with what she was supposed to be doing. "You've no business to be disturbing the young gentleman."

"It was no disturbance, really, I assure you."

"It's kind of you to say so, but she will go poking her nose into what doesn't concern her."

Nicholas was impelled to a touch of gallantry. "A pretty little nose, too. Your daughter?"

"Get away with you - my grand-daughter, as I dare say you realise very well, you young rascal!" But she was amused none the less, and decided on reflection that he might be of the gentry and have visited all kinds of foreign parts, but he still seemed a very pleasant young man and not at all stuck up with it.

A few months later Bishop Justin was back again for more conference with Robert, and naturally Nicholas came too, complete with painting kit. He was gradually becoming more adept, and had attempted some portraits though with disappointing results. He needed more practice, and that needed a sitter who wasn't always dashing off on more important business, so when he bumped into Alison again he asked if she would oblige. "All very well for you, young sir. Some of us have work to do, you know."

"Yes, but when you're passing through, couldn't you stay just for a minute or two while I get the outlines down?"

"Well ... I suppose the odd minute won't do any harm."

But of course the outline was only the beginning, and getting the gradation of skin tones anything like right needed a more concentrated effort. The odd minute had already stretched well beyond the odd five minutes, and Alice felt she had to take notice. "It's not right," she grumbled to Cedric one evening. "He's taking up too much of her time, and the servants are beginning to whisper. Goodness knows what ideas he's putting into her head."

"I dare say you can guess well enough. Lads of that age all have the same idea, whether gentry or peasants."

"Aye, and of any other age too!"

"But don't worry too much; she's a sensible girl underneath. And after all, he's a better class of company than she'll find in the kitchen. Put a bit of polish on her, perhaps. Let it be for the time being. But don't say anything to Tom - he'd have a fit. The lad's only here for a couple more days. That may be the end of it." And so it was left.

The time came for farewells, and Nicholas was anxious to catch Alison in a quiet corner. "Look, their lordships need to keep in touch, so there's to be a regular messenger run. If I ask the courier to get a letter secretly to you, is there anyone you could trust to read it for you without spilling the beans?"

"No need for that. I can read it myself, if your writing's good enough."

"You can? Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. Try me if you don't believe it." So he jotted something down, and her blushes showed that she understood it very well.

It was half a year before Justin's next visit in person. When Nicholas had to be told twice to bring a particular package, and then brought the wrong one, Robert commented on his unusual absent-mindedness. "Is he sickening for something, do you think?"

"You might say that. I caught him the other day with his nose stuck in a book of Petrarch - that man has a lot to answer for! His age, you know."

"Oh, so that's it. Any idea who's the lady?"

"He seems to have fallen heavily for your Master Thomas's daughter."

"What, Alison?"

"That's the one. A pretty girl, and pleasant-mannered, from the odd word I've had with her. Well liked, too, I gather."

"Good lord. Is it serious, do you think, or just a passing fancy?"

"As far as a lad of his age knows his own mind, I should say very serious. He did have a crush on the chaplain's sister, but he was over that in five weeks. The next one took even less. This time he's hardly looked at any other girl for the past six months, and that's quite something, for him."

"Hm. It won't do, of course. I don't like the idea of mixing the classes. Could bring all kinds of problems. Look what happened when old Percy's nephew eloped with the shoemaker's daughter."

"Yes, he did rather put his foot in it."

"Justin!"

"Sorry. To be serious, I do see the difficulties. Though I gather that Alison is a cut above the usual run of servants. Nicholas could look a good deal higher and do worse. And his own background isn't all that exalted."

Justin explained that he had taken the boy on as a favour when his father, who had very efficiently handled a tricky lawsuit for the See, had perished in a fire with the rest of the family while Nicholas was elsewhere. "But that favour's been amply rewarded. It's almost like having a son of my own."

"Indeed!"

"And you can take that smirk off your face, Robert Ernscar! I'm no model of priestly virtue, heaven knows, but I've never gone in for that kind of shenanigans. Or the other. But to get back to the point. The lad's going to marry some time, and I'd like to see him happy. More importantly, I'd like to get his mind back on his proper duties."

"Fair enough. But surely not Alison. Quite apart from the difference in status, how well do they know each other? They can't have had more than a few hours together all told, probably much less, and scattered over the best part of a year. There's probably more imagination than substance in his ideas of her."

"Quite possibly. How well did you know the Lady Eleanor before you were married?"

"That's different. The usual family set-up. We met a couple of times, briefly, enough to make out that we didn't hate each other on sight."

"Exactly. Yet by all accounts it's turned out tolerably well."

Robert smiled affectionately. "Tolerably indeed. All right, point taken. But just supposing we were to countenance such a union, what should we do about it? If anything."

"Well, I stand more or less _in loco parentis_ to Nicholas, but there are uncles who will reasonably expect a say in the matter. And there's the girl's father. What does he think of the situation?"

"I doubt if he has any idea of what's going on. There aren't many people he trusts, but I think I'm one of them, and he hasn't mentioned it. Though maybe he wouldn't anyway. An honest man, but close about his own affairs, and hard as nails. I can't see him coming up with much of a dowry, even if he could, which is unlikely."

"And the uncles would certainly expect one - it would look very bad otherwise, apart from anything else."

"Hm. Well, I'm sorry, Master Nicholas, but there doesn't seem to be much future in it."

"That's more or less what I told him."

Alison herself was just then taking a moment to look again at Nicholas's last letter when she heard someone coming and put it away hastily. Too hastily; it fell out without her noticing and a new domestic found it on the ground. He had had it thoroughly dinned into him that outside the servants' quarters he was to be seen little and heard not at all, so he checked the impulse to call after her and was too busy to follow. Later, however, he bumped into Tom. "Excuse me, Master Thomas, but I think Mistress Alison dropped this piece of paper, and I couldn't catch her attention before she was off. I wasn't sure whether to pick it up or leave it. Can you tell if it is hers?"

Tom glanced at it, and quickly put a calm face on his shock. "Yes, lad, I think it is. Thanks. You did right." The boy had never been anything but polite to him, and thanks cost nothing. It even occurred to him that a small tip might be fitting - the shock must have been worse than he realised - but he had no suitable coin handy and the aberration soon passed.

His anxiety did not. That evening he tackled Alison about it, together with Cedric and Alice who agreed with him on grounds of common experience. Alison's own wishes hadn't been considered, but if she was less blinded by romance than Nicholas, she was at least as attached to him personally as to the prospect of social advancement that a marriage would offer. Alice was not impressed. "He may talk very well, but they all do that when they want something. Even if he really means what he says at the time, lads of that age are liable to change their minds at a moment's notice."

"He's been saying the same for about nine months now."

"Yes, and nine months is about the time they lose interest, when the chickens come home to roost."

"There's been none of that. When would we have the chance, even if I wanted to?"

"And don't you?"

"Yes - when the ring's on my finger, and not before."

Tom loved his daughter dearly, and would be glad to see her happily settled, but had to put the social realities to her. "Look, Alison, he's gentry, probably nobility. What has he told you of his family?"

"Only that most of them died in a fire. The bishop's all the father he has now."

"Well, that counts as nobility. Even if the lad's genuine and loyal - and for all the truth of what your grandmother's been saying, it's just possible he may be - even then, he'll be expected to marry within his own class when the time comes. His feelings don't come into it. For these people, marriage is a business arrangement, and what good would an alliance with us do for anyone?"

So it went on, until at last Tom put a stop to it by forbidding Alison to have any further contact or correspondences with Nicholas. It wrenched his heart to see her misery, but it was for her own good in the long run. She went to bed in tears.

*****

Conversation continued far into the evening, pleasantly lubricated, so that Anne went to her room later than usual and slightly less steady on her feet. The picture of the jester's daughter caught her eye and she took it down for a closer examination. She worked in an art gallery and had some appreciation of the technicalities. It really wasn't very skilfully done, but well enough to show a face that must have been very attractive in its day. The appearance of sorrow that she had noticed on a previous occasion was evidently a trick of the light on the brush-strokes, and came and went as she turned it. A sense of undefined longing came over her. "This is ridiculous," she thought. "I'm tired, I'm half-sloshed, I'm worried about John" - she had been thinking that if he didn't make a move soon she would have to consider cutting her losses - "and probably reading my own anxieties into a quite different situation. Whatever it may have been." But nevertheless she kept hoping, in waking moments during a rather disturbed night, that if the girl's sadness had been real, it had come right for her in the end.

*****

News came to Ernscar, among other things, about two of Justin's relatives, both on reasonably good terms with Robert but for years at odds with each other over a disputed claim to inheritance. A tavern brawl between some of their retainers had developed into something more serious, resulting in several fairly severe injuries, including broken limbs and stab wounds that would take weeks to heal. Each side naturally blamed the other for starting the affray, each lord demanded compensation from the other, each refused to pay, and the incident looked like escalating into armed conflict. "Honestly!" exploded Justin. "Some people should never be let out of the nursery. I could cheerfully bang their heads together. As if we didn't have quite enough trouble from a threat of war without our friends and relations fighting each other!"

"What set them off?" asked Robert. "Not in this particular squabble, I mean, but in the first place? I only heard that they were always at each other's throats."

"It's really quite trivial - a small manor house that I inherited. Nothing compared with the estates that they have already. It's entailed, and one or other of these two would get it according to the legal provisions for the possessor's dying without lawful male issue, but they aren't sure which. The legitimacy of the senior line is disputed, just plausibly enough for no one to predict how a judgement between them would go if it went to court. So neither of them will risk litigation. Between ourselves, I've been trying to find ways of disqualifying both of them. But for the insistence on 'lawful' issue I might have been tempted to sire a bastard myself just to avoid the whole wretched problem."

"Well, I've never heard that excuse before. Full marks for novelty if not for virtue, my old friend! Let's see; the first might have been a girl, and so might the second, so perhaps you should take half a dozen mistresses to be on the safe side."

"All right, all right, have your little joke. It would be quite amusing in other circumstances. Have you any more serious suggestions?"

"Well, for a start, your ingenious little scheme wouldn't have worked anyway, because if illegitimacy were no bar the question wouldn't have arisen. But the crucial point seems to be 'lawful issue.' I'm no expert on the law, but doesn't formal adoption confer all the legal privileges of an actual son?"

"I'm not sure how it would bear on the entail. But even if it didn't eventually stand in law, it would at least get those two idiots on the same side to fight it, and for the time being that might be good enough. Hm. Worth thinking about."

"Good, because I've no other ideas. And it's got to be quick, and it's got be made known, at least to the said idiots. One way might be to install your new-found heir and his family in the manor itself. Is there a sitting tenant, by the way?"

"A steward. That's no problem."

"Good. So all we need is to choose your son."

"There's no option. In the time we have, it can only be Nicholas."

"A bit young for the part, isn't he? And no family, not even a wife."

"There's nothing we can do about his age. A wife is another matter."

"Oh, come off it, Justin. I may be fairly ruthless at times, and I know these things are essentially matters of convenience, but even I wouldn't force a man besotted with one woman into marriage to another. Altogether too cruel all round."

"Actually, Robert, I think you're quite a romantic on the quiet."

"Justin, I don't like that crafty look in your eye. I've seen it before, and it usually bodes trouble."

"Does it, indeed? Well, how about this? You've just wished a son on me. Allow me to return the compliment with a daughter."

"What!!?"

"Simple. I adopt Nicholas; you adopt Alison. That gets over the question of rank, and I gather that Mistress Alison is more than a match for some of our high-born ladies in sense and decorum. You'll have to square it with Master Thomas, of course, but explain that it's purely a legal fiction, except that you'll be providing the dowry for her wedding - I gather the lady is willing enough ..."

"Ah yes, the dowry. I knew there'd be a snag somewhere."

"Don't worry, I shan't be unduly demanding in that respect."

"Too kind!"

"Anyway, to resume. I'm sure from what I hear of Tom that on those conditions he won't object, so announce the wedding, invite the two idiots at the root of all the trouble - you never know, on such an occasion they might actually be induced to talk to each other like civilised gentlemen instead of quarrelsome schoolboys - and hey presto! The problem's solved, for the time being. And sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."

*****

One morning, a few days after the wedding, Alison awoke in tears, to Nicholas's consternation. "What's the matter, love?"

Alison snuffled for a while, then came to herself. "Sorry, dear, it's nothing really. I just had such a sad dream."

"Tell me. As much as you can remember. Get it out of your system."

"It was like looking into one of those paintings you told me about, only people were moving. Two of them were walking along paths in a forest. They got glimpses of each other through the trees and I knew they wanted to come together and I desperately wanted them to, but between the paths was a tangle of briars and creepers that barred the way. And then they came to a place where the paths were so overgrown that they had to pick their way carefully and didn't notice that there was nothing between them but a hundred yards of brushwood. I tried to call to them that they could easily get through it, but no sound would come. After that the paths moved apart and they saw each other less and less often, but they couldn't go back, only forward. And then the man came to a great plain of bare rock that he had to cross, and he went on for days and days, and at first there were streams of clear water, and then only dirty puddles, and then nothing at all, until at last he just sat down in despair, and that was the end."

She subsided into tears, and Nicholas cuddled her. "There, there, it was only a dream. It's over now."

"But what does it mean?"

"Probably nothing at all, at least nothing beyond your own mind. Perhaps you were thinking what might have happened if we hadn't been able to come together. But we did get through that brushwood. Someone did manage to call to us – Cedric putting in a good word with their lordships, perhaps? Who knows? Whoever it was, we should be grateful."

After a few minutes he had another thought. "Cedric and Alice are very fond of you, aren't they?"

"Yes, and I of them."

"They're bound to miss you."

"I suppose they will. Why?"

"I've been thinking. You remember that painting of you that I started?"

"Yes, but what about it?"

"Well, it isn't very good, but I could work it up a bit. Do you think they'd like to have it? Nowhere near like having you back with them, but better than nothing."

"Oh, Nicholas, what a lovely idea! I'm sure they'd be delighted."

*****

One question was resolved in Anne's mind by the morning: she would have it out with John, one way or the other, once and for all. No time like the present, but it was a while before she could get him alone in a secluded corner of the garden, away from risk of interruption. Then she wound herself up, forced herself to an appearance of calm, sat deliberately a few feet away from him and took a deep breath. "John, we've got to have a serious talk."

"That sounds ominous. What about?"

"Look, how long have we been going out together?"

"Must be a couple of years now. Yes, easily that. What of it?"

"It's been very nice, and your people have been marvellous, but we don't seem to be getting anywhere."

"I suppose not. I'd have taken you to bed any time, only you wouldn't have it."

"Don't be exasperating, John. I'm not talking about sex. Not that it isn't important; I've wanted you more than I can tell. No, let me finish. I don't want just a casual fling or even a 'stable relationship' (horrible term, sounds like something to do with horses). What I want is 'to have and to hold, for better or worse, till death us do part' and all that. The full works. If you can't or won't give it to me, then I'm very sorry, dear, but I don't think I can bear to go on as we are."

John took a moment to answer; it seemed like an age. "Good lord."

"Is that all you can say?"

"Well, no, but I was just stunned."

"Why? Is it such a novel idea."

"Not at all. I've wanted it too, almost from the start, but couldn't bring myself to ask."

"Why ever not?"

"Partly for something like what Brian was talking about last night - a fear of committing myself. I couldn't give myself up completely."

"No one can, in one go. Every couple has to work at it. And in any case there are always other responsibilities. But what was the other reason?"

"Well, you may not believe this, but I was simply too scared."

"Scared? Of me?"

"In a way, yes. You seemed so cool, so content with the situation as it was. So I had to force myself to be the same - that damned English stiff upper lip. I was terrified you'd say 'No'."

"Idiot!" And for a while it was neither necessary nor possible to say anything.

*****

It was an attractive village where they stopped for lunch, the pub was generous in its helpings, and the home-made pie too good to waste any part of it. They clearly needed time for digestion before continuing. From the outside, the church showed every sign of being true rather than neo-Gothic, and Anne was eager to look round it. John was less keen, but very willing to humour her.

She was not particularly anxious for a guide, but inside was a verger, who glanced up from repairing a notice board and said he would be with them in a moment once he had finished. That done, he asked civilly enough if without particular interest whether they had come from far away, but when told he really came alive. "You must see this, then," he said, leading them to a side chapel. "We're particularly proud of this chapel anyway, but there's actually a connection with Ernscar. Now where's that paper ..." And rummaging round, he produced a leaflet describing its foundation and features with the text of an ancient legal document, damaged when discovered but mostly legible, prescribing the endowment in 1470 by one Alison, widow of Nicholas Palmer, knight.

It stipulated that a Mass be said for the repose of his soul and that of her father - "You see, here..." - Thomas Miller of Ernscar in the county of (indecipherable), annually on the fifteenth day of April in perpetuity. "Of course, the Reformation did away with all that." He didn't actually add "nonsense" but it was clearly to be understood. Anne found herself rather shocked that pride in the bequest should be untouched by shame at defaulting on the only condition, and mentally exchanged her intended paper donation for a coin, not of the highest denomination.

"It's lucky there was no effigy, otherwise the place might have been smashed up. The vandals did enough damage to the glass in the nave, and no one was daft enough to tell them what the chapel was originally for. Her grave used to be just outside, with three of her sons and their wives according to old records, but they disappeared when horses were kept in the churchyard during the Civil War."

"Not Sir Nicholas himself?"

"No, there's a story that he was lost at sea coming back from some business in Flanders. He'd been on several diplomatic missions, and it was probably one of those, but in any case he had other connections over there. I'm afraid there's nothing else we have of real note. There used to be a few tombs from the late 1600s, but the stones had to be removed a while back. Supposed to be unsafe. Still, there are some others that are quite old, if you're interested in that sort of thing."

The old man clearly meant well so they thanked him but declined the suggestion. Not too far away, they found a church evidently more sympathetic to the idea of Masses for the dead, and Anne left an offering to cover the next ten years - well short of perpetuity, of course, but a gesture in the right direction.

Return to Contents

##  ON WINGS OF SONG

It isn't quite true that I can't sing a note. I can, but never the right one, nor any remotely compatible with it. I was probably the only boy in the school's history asked to withdraw from the house choir in the annual music competition into which everyone with any sort of voice would be dragooned. Age hasn't improved matters, either, but then it rarely does. However, much more recently, the disability once again turned out to my advantage.

The occasion followed a suggestion from a bright spark in local radio that organising a music festival "would put the town on the map", a task in which, as some pedant pointed out in a letter to the press, no one had previously suggested any negligence by the Ordnance Survey. It started a correspondence about the general lack of cultural opportunities in the area. In the course of it, a clergyman pointed out that before the advent of the motorway network allowing those who could afford it fairly easy access to theatres and concert-halls in the big cities, there had been quite a vigorous circle of music and dramatic societies, now alas mostly defunct or moribund; might it be possible to revive some of them for the benefit of people with more limited resources? The churches were supposed to be concerned with the welfare of the poor, and had already been making noises about the lack of innocent activities for youngsters, so perhaps they might make a start.

The chairman of the district Churches Together group took up the idea, proposing to set up a committee, consider the possibilities and follow up any that looked promising. Despite the groans of "Not another committee!", the motion was passed comfortably. So was another to co-opt the originator of the Festival idea. Objections that the man had a history of appearing hostile towards organised religion were overruled - "Does it really matter in this instance?" - and he proved surprisingly agreeable. The result, a month or two later, was a circular to all the churches promoting a competition for church choirs.

Inevitably, once Barbara Maxwell heard that St. Cyprian's was going to enter it, she determined that St. Cyril's also had to take part. Since her own school days, she and her opposite number in the other church had been fiercely jealous rivals in every field of activity they shared. In fact, if ever either of them was known to have taken up a new interest, the other felt compelled to follow suit, so that by the time in question the area of conflict had stretched to cover practically everything they did in public.

Barbara was a great organiser. During the war her father had appointed himself commander of a Home Guard unit somewhere on the south coast, and she had evidently inherited much of his spirit. How poor old Fred Maxwell had attracted her matrimonial attentions, goodness only knew, but as he would say over many a commiseratory jar in the local pub, it took more pluck than he possessed to refuse or question anything that she had set her mind on doing. With her customary vigour she set about knocking the church choir into the sort of shape she thought suitable, regardless of anyone else's ideas.

The challenge facing her was that St. Cyprian's choir was highly regarded, to the extent of being considered a year or so earlier to feature in 'Songs of Praise' although nothing came of it; apparently there was a clash of dates. St. Cyril's was, to put it kindly, less so, but we weren't sure how far behind at that time. Barbara wouldn't risk giving the game away by investigating the opposition herself, but sent one of her least conspicuous minions to their Harvest Festival. Unfortunately, for about the first time in her fifty-odd years, Mabel did attract some attention; the vicar buttonholed her, asked kindly if she was new to the district and hoped she might be seen there regularly. She was possibly the world's least convincing fibber, and I don't know how she got out of that one, but she apparently managed to escape without betraying herself. She duly reported that we should have a hard struggle to get anywhere near their standard and I thought for a moment that she was about to suggest dropping the idea, but if that was indeed in her mind the expression on Barbara's face quickly banished it.

Quality wasn't the only deficiency at St. Cyril's; quantity was also lacking for the kind of repertoire to be performed, so Barbara launched an intensive recruiting drive. Excuses about "too many other commitments" were peremptorily overridden. Mercifully she was well aware of my vocal deficiencies, but they didn't get me quite off the hook; a proper organisation must be set up, someone had to do the admin, and despite all protests that my brain switched off at the first whiff of any financial matter, the job of secretary cum treasurer landed in my lap. As a bank manager's daughter she probably couldn't imagine the blind panic induced by a column of figures under a pound sign.

Somehow she got together a fair number of sopranos, altos, tenors and what might just about pass as baritones or basses, and started a period of intensive training. It was uphill work, and a wag among the tenors once claimed to have seen a posse of the local tom-cats practising boot-throwing in the moonlight on his way home after the previous rehearsal. However, the results gradually became less painful, especially after a couple of the elderly ladies were tactfully advised that their most helpful contribution would be in preparing the refreshments. It wasn't Barbara herself with the tact, of course; she had the sense to delegate.

For the actual competition, a coach was to be booked to transport everyone concerned, despite the plentiful private cars available and grumbles about the hire fee from some people who had expected to be given a free ride. As Barbara put it in dismissing objections, all were being treated alike, and in any case she wasn't going to risk anyone's getting lost or breaking down on the way. Quotations to provide the transport made my eyes water, but that from Johnnie's Jaunts was the least exorbitant and we plumped for that. I didn't know the firm and the frivolous trade name rather worried me, but no one I consulted had substantial criticisms while various people said it was "all right", although with a dubious intonation that reinforced my doubts.

I was therefore surprised when the vehicle that turned up had a recent registration, looked remarkably smart and bore a completely different name, but the driver explained that the bosses were friends and often helped each other out when one was stretched. Even so, I asked if he was sure of having come to the right place, and he indignantly waved a barely-legible note in which the name at least seemed to begin with a C. Unconvinced, I mentioned my doubts to Barbara, who was anxious to be off and too impatient to take much notice. "Stop fussing, Gerald. You're getting to be a proper old woman these days."

That stung, as similar comments had recently come from much closer to home, so I didn't press the point but saw the party off and returned to mending a broken window in the church hall. Twenty minutes later there was a hammering at the door, where a scruffy-looking character apologised for being late but the bus had had a little problem with the brakes binding. Outside was a vehicle that looked as though it had been commandeered on the way to the scrap-yard; "Johnnie's Jaunts" was emblazoned in the only paint that might have seen less than twenty or thirty summers, and I strongly suspected that the brakes would be the least of its weaknesses. Nevertheless this was clearly the coach that we'd ordered, and the best I could do was to send the driver looking for a crowd of people waiting at St. Cyprian's, with an assurance that we'd see the bill was paid.

I have to confess that I was rather looking forward to rubbing Barbara's nose in the mistake, until I remembered that "I told you so" is the surest possible way into anyone's black books, especially when it's true. Afterwards I was glad to have held my tongue, as on her return Barbara was anything but contrite, and in fact quite jubilant. St. Cyprian's hadn't turned up to the festival at all; half way through the proceedings Cynthia Graham had telephoned to say their bus had broken down decisively in the midst of nowhere and they were still waiting to be rescued. Another choir had also failed to appear, owing to illness apparently, but among the half-dozen or so that did compete, ours didn't disgrace itself. Reports in the host town's paper were encouraging, and we were moderately pleased with the outcome.

Cynthia was of course furious that we'd used her coach, but despite some muttering about "dirty work at the crossroads" she stopped short of suggesting that we'd somehow engineered the situation. To anyone else it was perfectly obvious that the mistake wasn't ours, and that there was no more we could possibly have done to correct it. When her hire invoice came in, she did try to pass it on to us, but it was for nearly twice the quotation we'd accepted and we weren't having that. In any case we'd already paid Johnnie's bill and Barbara told her, none too diplomatically, to sort it out with the coach firms. Cynthia said something about legal action, but it wasn't clear who she thought of suing, and according to the grapevine her husband pointed out that if she did try it on, the only people likely to gain anything from it would be the lawyers. Her best course would be simply to ignore her invoice and let the owners make an issue of it if they wanted to publicise their blunder. Naturally, her relations with Barbara were frostier than ever and there was no further communication between them about it, but as we heard no more of the matter it seemed she must have taken that advice.

Meanwhile, Barbara's ambitions had expanded. Despite murmuring behind her back about delusions of grandeur, she now talked of opera, no less. Fortunately she didn't aspire to Verdi or Puccini, still less to Wagner ("Too pagan" was the reason given for disregarding a tongue-in-cheek suggestion of the 'Ring' cycle), but she thought that as 'Dido and Aeneas' had been written for a school it shouldn't be too demanding. Fred surprised everyone by daring to point out the fallacy in that argument: so was most of Vivaldi, and it was far from easy. Typically, Barbara brushed that aside. At least, to general relief, she wasn't going to risk a fully-staged version, so no one had to memorise a part completely.

Accordingly auditions were held, in some secrecy since no one wanted St. Cyprian's to get wind of what was planned before we were ready. The first session went tolerably well, but quite clearly no one there was of anything like the calibre needed for the crucial role of Dido herself. Nothing daunted, Barbara canvassed people for another session the following week and had a special appeal, in more general terms, put in the parish notices.

It evidently had some effect, and spirits rose as several fresh hopefuls turned up, only to sink again as one by one they were put through their paces. Then Joan Price arrived, apologised for being late and proved herself the only possible choice with her rendering of 'When I am laid in earth' despite a few catty remarks about its being about the only place she hadn't been. Actually I believe she was rather fastidious in such matters, but that's beside the point. Afterwards Audrey Gibbs asked for a private word and objected on moral grounds, but for once I almost applauded Barbara for telling her first to mind her own business, and then when she persisted producing a quotation that people who were hardest on the more generous sins tended to go in for the meaner ones. It must have struck home as we never saw Audrey again; she was no great loss and had caused trouble before, so if anything that was a relief.

There wasn't much option for Aeneas, either. Herbert Smallman's stature matched his name, while a diffident manner and a pale toothbrush moustache added nothing to his dignity, but he had undoubtedly the best of our tenor voices and could use it well. His looking anything but a hero hardly mattered, Barbara insisted. She produced an old record sleeve with a sardonic note that Aeneas was a hero simply by profession; he didn't in fact have to do anything at all heroic in the plot, quite the reverse. The idea of so unimpressive a figure in a passionate love scene with the voluptuous Joan still boggled a few minds, but didn't Samuel Johnson define opera as "an irrational entertainment"? Anyway, it was the best we could do. For the rest, we had quite a decent Sorceress, a tolerable Belinda, and a more or less adequate chorus of witches and sailors.

Half-way through rehearsals, Mabel Goodwin brought some disturbing news. The daughter of an old school friend had asked her to stand as godmother to her child, something she was delighted to do, but she was told only later that the christening was to be at St. Cyprian's. She could hardly escape notice on such an occasion, and the vicar did indeed remember her previous visit on reconnaissance, but his attention was of course mainly elsewhere.

After the service, tea and biscuits were offered in the church hall, with something stronger for those who preferred it. Mabel clearly had to appear reasonably sociable but needed to keep her wits about her and steered clear of the alcohol. In the course of conversation, one of the parishioners asked where she came from and commented that someone had transferred from St. Cyril's quite recently, a Miss Audrey Gibbs; did Mabel know her? Of course she did, but disclaimed familiarity, and wondered what was coming. It seemed that Audrey had made a point of cultivating Cynthia Graham's acquaintance and become quite thick with her, causing a certain amount of resentment in the process; it was apparently on her suggestion that a public recital by their choir was to be given on a particular date, which as Mabel realised just happened to be the same as had long been planned for our production.

The town might just about provide a decent audience for one such event, but not for two on the same night or even in the same month, so this was evidently a bit of deliberate sabotage on Audrey's part. We couldn't change our date, and there was obviously no point in Barbara's asking Cynthia to change theirs, so we were flummoxed until someone suggested that even if the principals to the dispute could never be brought to deal directly with each other, secondary figures might make some headway. After all, that was the way international business usually worked. But was there anyone with enough influence on Cynthia? And if we did find someone, who could make contact without immediately arousing suspicions?

As it happened, Joan Price overheard this and came up with an idea: she worked in the same department as Cynthia's brother and had a slightly better than nodding acquaintance with him. He had been widowed a few months earlier after a reputedly happy marriage, still seemed down in the dumps, had noticeably lost weight, and she had occasionally passed him looking dismally through café menus; why shouldn't she invite him to come for a bit of decent home cooking, try to cheer him up and see if she could get anywhere that way?

This seemed as good a scheme as any, especially (although no one actually said it) since Joan's figure suggested at least competence in the culinary art. However, after she had left, Mavis Bannister was doubtful about the ethics of the scheme. Barbara had had a frustrating day and was in no mood for scruples. "For goodness sake! We're not asking her to seduce him."

"That isn't quite what I had in mind, but since you mention it, supposing she does? Wouldn't we be responsible, at least partly?"

"Look, I may be my brother's keeper, but certainly not Cynthia's brother's. He's old enough to look after himself, and it's a kindly approach even if there is an ulterior motive. In any case, whatever she meant by trying to cheer him up, we don't actually know that Joan's such a man-eater; it's only rumour - wishful thinking more than anything, I dare say."

Nevertheless there was a good deal of speculation on how things might turn out, and we waited eagerly for a report at the next rehearsal. Barbara tried to damp down expectations, especially among the more prurient ("We aren't likely to get a blow-by-blow account, whatever may or may not have happened") but that didn't stop a fair amount of increasingly elaborate fantasising until she came down like a ton of bricks on speculating openly; indiscretions outside the circle might endanger the whole plan, so far as any sort of plan existed.

The intention had been to take Joan's report, supposing there was to be one, after the main business of the evening, but people's minds were clearly not on it so that after three or four fluffed openings, Barbara accepted the inevitable and asked Joan how her idea had worked out. Fairly well, it seemed: Gordon had shown some surprise at her invitation, but after a moment's hesitation accepted rather more readily than expected. He proved very much the gentleman, turning up on the dot with an acceptable bottle of wine, did full justice to the meal, complimented her on her cuisine and when the time came to depart said with every sign of sincerity how much he had enjoyed the evening.

In fact he had invited her to dine with him less than a week later at a restaurant, but Joan pointed out that none of those she knew was likely to produce a meal half as good as she could make at a fraction of the cost; not bragging, but realism. Gordon took the point, but was embarrassed by the arrangement's being so one-sided with Joan doing all the work. He himself had never learned to cook beyond boiling an egg or at a pinch frying sausages and bacon, but that gave Joan the perfect opening for an offer of tuition: "Just in cookery!" she emphasised to us with a twinkle when some eyebrows were raised. She was well aware of her reputation and rather enjoyed it, I thought; that was one reason why I doubted it.

Nevertheless this development naturally gave rise to a good deal of banter, which Joan typically took in good part and handled deftly without giving very much away. "That's all very well," Barbara told her a couple of weeks later, "but we still don't know whether Gordon actually has any influence over Cynthia. And we haven't all that much time left."

"He doesn't say a great deal about her, though there's no suggestion of anything less than normal family affection. But in any case you can't expect her to change her arrangements without a convincing reason, however close they may be."

"Well, has anything come up that might suggest such a reason?"

"Short of the hall's burning down there's nothing obvious." Even Barbara stopped short of contemplating arson, so it began to seem that successful as Joan's enterprise might have been socially, it hadn't taken us much further with our problem.

However, while Joan was giving Gordon the next lesson, Cynthia happened to call and Joan was duly introduced as the tutor. "So you're getting him to look after himself a bit better? I hope it's healthy eating."

"Well, reasonably. A fair amount of fruit or veg. and not too much in the way of chips and fried stuff."

"Good." Then she turned to the reason for her visit. "Gordon, you'll have to do something about the parish council."

"Why, what's the matter?"

"They're turning stroppy about our rehearsal times in the hall."

"I'd have thought they'd be glad to have the rent."

"That's the point. We're actually paying only for our usual two sessions a week. We had an informal arrangement that so long as no one else needed the hall and we didn't have the heating on, the hall committee would look the other way, but Donald Ferguson heard about it and put his foot down. He's very sorry but the parish can't afford to be so generous."

"Well, I suppose you'll just have to pay up, then."

"But we can't afford it, either. The scores cost far more than we'd expected, and you know there's been a crack-down on copying. Can't you tackle Donald and get him to change his mind?"

"Well, I'll have a word, but don't build up any hopes."

After she had gone, Joan wondered why the church choir needed to pay rent at all to the church, but Gordon explained that it had been formally reconstituted as a choral society a few years back to qualify for some funds on offer at the time, and the parish church council had insisted reasonably enough that they couldn't have it both ways, at least when putting on a secular event. They would normally rehearse in the church, but a long-overdue programme of structural repairs had at last been started now that the builder found a slot to fit it in, and the place was constantly smothered in dust; hence the need to use the hall.

Joan duly reported this interesting intelligence the next time we met, and it struck me that if we were worried about the prospect of a competing event, St. Cyprian's had at least as much cause for alarm about the loss of revenue due to a clash, and there would be mutual benefit in avoiding it. Obviously Barbara could never raise the question with them, and it would be best not to risk blowing Joan's cover such as it was, so it was settled that I should approach Cynthia and put the situation to her. A discreet enquiry showed that their hall rental was significantly higher than ours, so I suggested that as an olive branch after the business with the coach hire, we should offer the use of our hall when it wasn't otherwise occupied. Barbara of course demurred, but Fred told her not to be so silly - the worm really was showing signs of turning - and with much less trouble than I'd expected, it was agreed.

I'd never actually met Cynthia in person and wondered what to expect. She turned out to be a small, wiry and clearly very determined lady with whom it would be unwise to trifle, and would have been sure to see through any flannel, so I came straight out with our anxiety about the coincidence of dates and she took the point immediately. Which of us should move was the question, and I thought it best to haggle over that for a little while before playing what I hoped would be our trump card.

That was followed by a full twenty seconds of complete silence. I could almost hear the cogs whirring. She then asked whether the offer depended on a postponement of her concert, as I confirmed, and she nodded quietly. After a shorter interval she said "Right. To be honest, we could do with another month's preparation. We've had a lot of trouble with illness, and trying to catch up with extra rehearsals in the same week doesn't suit everyone. It's a bit awkward in some ways, but on the whole I think putting it back will be best all round." We shook hands and parted quite amicably.

After this, Barbara expected Joan to be relieved that the purpose of her ruse had been achieved and she could drop it, but instead the reaction was of shocked indignation. "What sort of woman do you take me for? To go back on a promise because I don't need to make use of him any more? I shouldn't dream of it!"

I'd never seen her so angry, nor Barbara so taken aback. "W-well, if that's the way you look at it ..."

"Yes, it damn well is. Now can we get on with the rehearsal?"

Interesting, I thought. Joan certainly went up a notch or two in my estimation, and the expressions on a few other faces seemed to register approval. Barbara was still a bit wobbly by the time for a break, and actually asked me whether she'd put her foot in something.

"Maybe, but don't worry. Joan's got it off her chest -" (a rather unfortunate anatomical reference, it later struck me) "- and I don't think she's one for grudges. That's probably the end of it." Even so, I wondered whether more was going on than we realised.

Evidently there was. Joan actually brought Gordon along to the next rehearsal and introduced him. He seemed, as she had said, very much the gentleman, paying close attention and sitting quietly, apart from a little gentle applause now and then. At the break he came up and commented that he understood I'd had dealings with his sister; how had I got on with her? "Pretty well, I think. She wasn't giving anything away unnecessarily, of course, but she struck me as quite straightforward."

"Good. She said something of the sort about you, too. But I believe there's a long-standing feud of some sort with Barbara; do you know what that's all about?"

"Only that it's something hanging over from their school days. I don't suppose you know any more?"

"No, I've always thought it best not to ask. Discretion the better part of valour, and all that. But I do wish it could be cleared up." I wondered what his interest might be, and he explained that he'd heard a great deal about Cynthia's choir from her, and latterly a fair amount about ours from Joan; it seemed a pity that two organisations doing much the same kind of thing in the same town should be at loggerheads when they might do much better by co-operating. "I'm sure you realise that your lot aren't as good as Cynthia's, but you're not bad, and you've got ambitions which is more than I could say of hers. Think of what you might do together."

Actually, I couldn't, and pointed out that in any case the chances of getting Barbara and Cynthia into the same team were negligible; there'd be constant bickering over who was to be in charge.

Gordon nodded understanding and paused for a moment. I wondered what was coming. "Of course," he said, "there is one person trusted and respected by both parties."

I wondered who that might be. "Why, you, of course."

I was flabbergasted. "You're not suggesting that I should run this ... this ..."

"That's precisely what I am suggesting." But the break was over. "Think about it," he urged, as we went back to our places. We had no further opportunity to talk that evening.

The more I thought the less I liked it, so when he phoned a couple of days later I explained that Barbara might trust me as a fairly reliable dogsbody, but would never contemplate me as a manager. "Don't call it management, then. How about 'liaison'?"

"I don't see that that would help all that much. In any case, why are you so keen on the idea?"

"Better not explain over the phone. Can we meet somewhere?"

I wasn't sure whether to be alarmed or intrigued by this suggestion of plotting, but after a moment's thought suggested a pub likely to be noisy enough to prevent casual eavesdropping. Gordon insisted on buying the drinks and found a place in a relatively quiet corner by the outer wall. "Why all the mystery?" I asked.

"Well, it's rather silly really, but I've been particularly enjoined not to let cats out of bags too early. The point is that our firm has linked up with another in the States, and the boss is in a tizzy of keeping up with the transatlantic Joneses - not that anyone involved is called that, so far as I know. When he went across to clinch the deal, their big man treated him to a concert given by a chamber orchestra that they support, and seemed to take it for granted that we'd have some similar arrangement. Of course, he couldn't bear to lose face by simply admitting that we haven't, and he seems to have dug himself into a hole too deep to get out of, so now we're scratching around looking for something that might serve. And we haven't found it."

I wondered where all this was leading. "I'm coming to that, please let me do it in my own way. Now, I was quite impressed by what I saw of your 'Dido' the other night, but it's a bit amateurish - no offence, I hope."

"None taken. That's an understatement."

"Right. Cynthia's bunch is much more polished, but unadventurous. Put them together, and we might really have something. Something that Watsons could be proud to sponsor."

That really was food for thought, but we needed specifics. "Just what would that involve?"

"It would have to be worked out by agreement, of course. On your part, a certain number of appearances per year - not more than half a dozen, I should think, maybe less. On ours, the obvious things are to provide matching costumes - some professional coaching perhaps - subsidised travel ..."

"Travel?"

"Oh, yes, you'd have to go about a bit. Get yourselves noticed more widely. Otherwise there'd be no point."

"Don't forget we have other responsibilities - jobs to do, families to look after ..."

"Yes, yes, of course all that would have to be taken into consideration. But there's no sense in getting ahead of ourselves; what do you think of the general idea?"

"Hmm. Well, I can certainly see it appealing to Barbara; I'm not sure of the others. Probably mixed feelings. How does Cynthia react?"

"I haven't mentioned it to her - wanted your reaction first. Can I take it that you don't completely rule out the idea?"

"Yes, I suppose that's fair enough, but my influence really doesn't amount to much; hardly anything, in fact, so for goodness sake don't exaggerate it. This is just a possibility that we'll have to consider."

"That's fine." He finished his glass and asked if I fancied another, but I was driving and declined. He produced his card, scribbled a private number on the back, and asked me to get in touch when I had something to report. "Discreetly, of course," he emphasised.

All this obviously had to be discussed straight away with Barbara herself, in confidence; there'd be ructions if she found out that anything of this sort had been going on behind her back. As expected, her first thought was of who would be in charge of combined operations, and it seemed unwise to mention Gordon's proposed solution, at least at this stage. Instead I suggested that she and Cynthia could alternate, which might work as a provisional arrangement until we saw how things went. That was where we left it. Meanwhile we had our own production to get up to scratch, and we concentrated on that for the next few weeks.

The St. Cyprian's people turned up as arranged and were grateful to find that I'd negotiated on their behalf a serial booking at a slight discount on the normal rate for casuals. As a further touch I suggested that our two tea-ladies might do the honours for them; at one time or another they had both commented on having rather limited social opportunities, so as expected they agreed readily and seemed to enjoy mixing with a new crowd. One week when the schedule had to be rearranged, by some oversight a few of St. Cyprian's were not notified, arrived on our evening and stayed as guests, making themselves quite agreeable. All in all, the prospects for joint activities were beginning to look rather promising.

In the event, 'Dido' went off pretty well despite an outbreak of first-night nerves that put a few fluffs, and perhaps a bit of extra zing, into that performance. We had good support from St. Cyprian's, greatly appreciated. I'd sent a complimentary ticket to Cynthia, not expecting her to use it but it seemed a worthwhile gesture; she could always give it away. In fact she turned up in person, although very slyly at the last minute and slipping into a back seat with a signal to keep mum about it. She even sent a note of thanks afterwards with more generous comments than I thought really deserved, again just for my own attention.

It was therefore no great surprise when a ticket to her concert came for Barbara. I'm afraid she was rather nasty about it in private, but I persuaded her to be at least civil and she deputed the long-suffering Fred to represent her. It wasn't his line at all, but he endured it with at least a pretence of interest; enthusiasm was too much to expect. I went under my own steam and was pleased to see Joan and Gordon arrive together.

After all this, the idea of joining forces on occasion seemed much less far-fetched than I had first thought possible, and discussions started in earnest. When proposed by Gordon I reluctantly accepted, purely for procedural purposes, the post as chairman of the managing committee. Watsons asked for ideas on the kind of uniform to be used for appearances under their sponsorship, causing a flurry of interest among the ladies and impatience in the men. Because of other commitments, the line-up was likely to vary substantially from time to time, so it would be wasteful to have fitted costumes for all, and we settled on a simple tabard to be worn over the ladies' own white blouse and dark skirt, or the equivalent for men.

The choice of blazon for the tabard posed some difficulty; "Watson Tonight?", suggested I believe by Harry Roberts who had reported the boot-throwing cats, was quickly dismissed as frivolous, but more constructive thoughts were sparse. Eventually we plumped for a simple "WATSONIA" as both design and name for the combined group. Especially for Harry's benefit I emphasised that the stress should be on the second syllable, not to make it sound like "What's on 'ere?"

Eventually we got round to more substantial matters, such as ideas for an inaugural concert. To save arguments it was agreed that it should be in two parts, respectively conducted, and the content chosen, by Barbara and Cynthia. The crucial question, of course, was who should come first. There was a certain amount of indecisive manoeuvring around it until someone suggested alphabetical order, but that would depend on whether based on Christian or surname. After about ten minutes of this nonsense Fred lost patience and told them for goodness sake to stop messing about and toss a coin for it, and so it was done.

Afterwards I couldn't resist commenting quietly that this was the third time I'd noticed him getting involved in Barbara's arguments, to increasing effect it seemed. He rather sheepishly said that he'd read somewhere (best not to ask where, I thought) that women really liked to be dominated, and while he couldn't hope to do that it was worth trying to be less of a doormat. "And does she like it?" I wondered.

"Well, she hasn't complained yet."

Bill Watson himself naturally wanted to see what his sponsorship was achieving, and Barbara belatedly realised that it might be a good idea to inquire about his tastes. According to Gordon, he was practically tone deaf and wouldn't know Billy Budd from Buddy Holly, but his wife was fairly knowledgeable and it would be diplomatic to involve her. Accordingly a programme committee was set up (groans all round), naturally including Barbara and Cynthia, and Elizabeth was invited to join it. Barbara was a bit prickly at first, but in time grudgingly admitted that her contributions were quite helpful.

The next question was where to hold the concert. Obviously it had to be on neutral territory, but of the immediately local possibilities, the town hall was far too large and expensive, while the others were inconveniently small. I started to look into the likelihood of being able to get a reduced rate for a special occasion from whoever might be responsible for managing town properties, but felt I was being passed around like a Chinese parcel and was thoroughly fed up with it when the answer came out of the blue.

A Russian businessman, finding things a shade too hot for him back home, had bought a dilapidated Georgian house a few miles away and spent what to us would be a substantial fortune, but to him was probably peanuts or whatever the Russian equivalent might be, on restoring it to its original glory augmented by a full complement of mod cons. He was anxious to ingratiate himself with the local community, or at least its more prominent members, and had cultivated acquaintance with all those he thought particularly influential, including Bill and Elizabeth Watson. To help matters along he had thought it advisable to change his rather jaw-wrenching name by deed poll to Stephen Norris, which bore some faint resemblance to the original.

His particular pride among the renovations was in the music room, and he had thought of having a house-warming party on midsummer's eve for his new-found cronies in the form of a concert. The idea at first was to get some well-known ensemble such as the King's Singers or the Northern Sinfonia, but of course they were all booked up for years ahead and he had to lower his sights. On some convivial occasion he was bemoaning the difficulty to Bill, who promptly offered the services of Watsonia, without mentioning that it hadn't yet actually performed publicly. Norris, naturally, jumped at it.

This news was received with mixed feelings. At least we had a venue, and practically everyone was eager to see what had been done with the Manor. On the other hand, it was a very different kind of occasion from what had been contemplated, so that families could hardly expect to be invited. Moreover, it meant a late night further away from home than some of the members relished. Then Mavis Bannister pointed out that Norris's past business practices were strongly rumoured to have left rather a lot to be desired, and should a church group really be associated with such a person? Barbara would have referred her to a biblical text but couldn't for the moment think of the right one, so simply told her not to be so finicky. In any case, like it or not, we were committed.

Norris had arranged a coach to take us out to the Manor, and when it turned up something about it struck me as familiar. It took a few minutes to dawn on me: of course, it was the same one as we had inadvertently taken over from St. Cyprian's, and the same driver, too. While we were waiting for one or two stragglers I wondered if there had been any repercussions. He had been called in to explain the mistake (more likely to get a rocket, I thought), but in view of my query had fortunately still kept his instructions which all concerned eventually had to agree were practically illegible and he had been right to follow the verbal directions he had been given. There was a great deal of amusement about it at the depot, but the boss had been furious and insisted on stricter procedures however great the haste; as it was his writing that had caused the confusion in the first place there was little more he could do about it.

We wondered on the way on whether the musicians would be consigned in traditional fashion to the servants' hall or allowed to mix with the nobs. We needn't have worried; the supper was a buffet and all were invited to tuck in. Then there was a short break before the concert, and after that Barbara came up to me in an agitated state to ask if I'd seen Joan, whom she had left talking to Norris. He was not visible either, but Mabel thought she had seen them heading for the garden.

Despite bright moonlight, I could see no one out there apart from a bear-like security guard who appeared apparently from nowhere and simply grunted when questioned, probably not understanding. However, a sort of gazebo a hundred yards or so from the house looked a likely spot, confirmed as I approached by a murmur of conversation followed by a very definite "No!" from Joan. It seemed best not to notice the slight disarray of her costume but simply to apologise for the intrusion and say she was needed for the performance; nor was there any obvious need to mention the circumstances to anyone else.

Our show went down pretty well, but Norris had not returned after the interval and even by the end had not reappeared. His wife tried to apologise for him, but her English was not up to it. Very soon a smooth young man relieved her of the task, explaining that his master was unavoidably detained but would want him to thank them for coming and wish them a good journey home. He was just coming to the end of this when the guard rushed in, obviously distraught, and jabbered something in Russian. The young secretary questioned him about it, then apologised to the gathering for some bad news: Norris had been found dead in suspicious circumstances, the police would obviously have to be brought in, and until they gave permission he was very sorry but no one could be allowed to leave.

The police duly appeared, in fact with a good deal more than their usual alacrity, quickly established that practically everyone had multiple alibis from people with no evident reason to lie, and allowed them to go home. The exceptions, of course, were the guard, Joan and myself. Rodney Cartwright, the secretary, vouched for the guard's being loyal to the point of self-sacrifice if necessary, but that was no help to us; the officer in charge apologised but we would have to stay until a more senior colleague arrived in the morning. Cartwright quickly arranged rooms for us (to my amusement he asked discreetly whether one or two; someone later joked that I'd missed a trick there) and promised to have us driven home the next day unless the police made other arrangements. I didn't like the sound of that but of course he simply meant on transport.

It was rather pleasant to spend a night in utter luxury, although on the whole I should have preferred my own bed, but at breakfast Joan said she had hardly slept. She had been worried in case events in the gazebo should cast suspicion on her, and presumably on me as a possible accomplice, so would it be best to keep quiet about them? I assured her that that would be the worst possible thing to do, as the guard was almost certain to have heard as much as I had and drawn the same obvious conclusion. It was far better to tell the truth, that Norris had made a pass at her, been rebuffed but accepted the refusal with a tolerably good grace. We both knew that he seemed perfectly fit when we left him, although he could easily have had a sudden heart attack or something of the sort afterwards. The idea of anything more sinister seemed at the time too far-fetched to contemplate seriously.

When Inspector Williams arrived, with more apologies for having to keep us overnight, I therefore asked what were the suspicious circumstances that required it. "The little matter of a knife in his back," was the rather convincing answer that promptly took the wind out of our sails. We gave our accounts in a more subdued mood. Both were compatible with each other, and although that was only to be expected given the ample opportunity for collusion, the guard had seen us leave the gazebo to return directly to the house. As the body had been found some distance away, and the time of death was most probably later, Williams said we seemed to be in the clear but should leave our contact details in case of need.

The local paper naturally splashed "MIDSUMMER MURDER" as a banner headline on the front page of its next issue, while some of the nationals did the same less prominently and not always with the correct spelling, but the excitement quickly faded. The crime was never solved, so far as I know; the general assumption was that Norris's past had caught up with him. Svetlana Norris reverted to her patronymic, sold up to a merchant banker and returned to her family in St. Petersburg. After another three months the whole business had faded into the background.

There was however a postscript: spring-cleaning at the Manor turned up some evidently valuable property very personal to Svetlana, presumably overlooked in the move. The banker took it to have been included with the house and would have sold it, had his wife not insisted that it ought to be restored to its original owner. How that might be done was the problem, but the maid who had come across the stuff happened to know Rodney Cartwright's address and suggested that he might have ideas. He had indeed been in correspondence with Svetlana's family over outstanding business and duly reported the find. The property was considered too precious to be entrusted to a commercial carrier, so he was asked to deliver it in person. He never returned. Two and two could be put together in various ways, but one widely accepted implied that the connections between the individuals concerned were a good deal less coincidental than had appeared at first sight.

The business at the Manor had brought Watsonia very much to public attention and it received several requests to perform at various events, although Cynthia as a good businesswoman was at pains to point out that we couldn't guarantee the violent death of the organiser, neatly turning any superstitious anxiety on that score. To one of these occasions Bill Watson brought along his American counterpart, Cyrus B. Wallace III, who turned out to be much less pompous than his dynastic moniker and was clearly impressed.

A few weeks later he mentioned to Bill that his silver wedding anniversary was coming up in that year, his wife was an opera fan, and he would like to put on for her sake a performance in which Watsonia would join forces with his chamber orchestra. Barbara thought the idea decidedly over-ambitious, but Cynthia pointed out that "Dido" had come off quite well with only limited resources and piano accompaniment, so with their combined forces and Wallace's band they should be able to do something quite elaborate. She had in mind a reduced form of "Un ballo in maschera", naturally in translation, and in the version adapted to escape censorship. She was obviously thinking of its being set in America as a compliment to our host, but I'm sure that at the back of her mind if not more prominently was a sense of familiarity in the story of a cuckolded husband killed by the wife's paramour who happens to be his secretary. So it was that we came to do Verdi after all.

The great advantage of singers over most other musicians when travelling is that the carrier can't lose their instruments. It can however lose their material luggage, and of course it had to be Barbara's that went missing. Fortunately we had a couple of days for rehearsals with the band; exchanging recordings over the preceding weeks had been useful and necessary, but no substitute for physical presence in the final stages. Thus Barbara, with much help from the Wallaces, was able between sessions to shop around for replacements to fill the immediate need. She couldn't however find a dress that satisfied her, until Gwyneth Wallace pointed out that they were of very similar size and build, and Barbara would be more than welcome to borrow one of hers.

Gwyneth's wardrobe was substantial and the choice was obviously going to take some time. The two women started chatting about other things, and Barbara commented that Gwyneth didn't really sound American. Quite right; it seemed she had been born in Britain, but brought to America by her foster-mother when in her teens. Foster mother? Yes, she was one of twins born to a mother who had emotional difficulties and could only cope with one, as had somehow slipped out despite instructions that she was never to be told anything of her origins.

Barbara of course wanted to know what Gwyneth intended to wear for the occasion, and was duly shown. Don't ask me the details; to me a dress is simply a dress, and I'm usually more interested in the wearer. Barbara however thought it very special, but needing a little something in the way of extra adornment. Gwyneth agreed, producing a curiously designed brooch that she always wore with it and provided exactly the right additional touch.

Barbara nevertheless detected, or imagined, a certain sheepishness in Gwyneth's manner at this point and wondered why, then apologised if she had put her foot in something delicate. "Ah, well," Gwyneth said, "confession is supposed to be good for the soul, isn't it?"

"Confession?"

"Yes. It isn't really mine at all."

"Come on, you can't leave it at that! Not now you've aroused my curiosity."

It seemed that the foster-mother had not entirely lost touch with the real parent, and heard that the other twin was at a boarding school near a resort that they visited occasionally. During one such break, Gwyneth was left for a few hours to her own devices and wandered over to have a look at the place. It was a warm, sunny afternoon and a door had been left open. The temptation to investigate was too great to resist, especially as the area seemed deserted, and she was particularly interested to see what the bedrooms were like. In one of them she noticed a newly-opened box and in it a most unusual brooch. She was engrossed in examining it when a girl of about her own age came in, so without thinking she pocketed the brooch and jumped out of the window. Only later did she find the object in her pocket, knew that she ought to return it but couldn't think how. Barbara wondered that she could bring herself to wear it. "Two reasons. It's beautiful, and it reminds me that I've done something dreadful when I'm tempted to criticise anyone else."

The two women eventually agreed on a dress for Barbara, who then had to dash off for the next rehearsal. All went smoothly after that, and I have to admit that at the party after the show, Gwyneth looked stunning. I was telling her so when Cynthia came up with her own compliments, but then noticed the brooch and asked if she might have a closer look. That surprised me, as she didn't usually take much interest in such things, and she explained that she had once had one very similar, supposedly of unique design. "What happened to it?"

"I lost it long ago. But excuse me, I must go and have a word with Barbara."

At least they were now on speaking terms, but then I saw that their conversation appeared quite uncharacteristically friendly, and the look of astonishment on Barbara's face was one I'd never seen before and haven't since. I couldn't resist commenting, and she explained that a puzzle of ancient history had just been resolved. She and Cynthia had once been friends; their feud stemmed from an occasion when a particularly valuable piece of jewellery had been stolen and Cynthia claimed to have seen her escaping after taking it. Barbara couldn't understand how such an accusation could be made, while Cynthia couldn't forgive the apparent betrayal of friendship, still less tolerate the denial of what seemed plain fact.

It took a little while for the implications to sink in, and then of course Cyrus had to be told. I must say that once over his initial shock, he handled the situation beautifully. At a suitable point in the proceedings he banged a spoon on the table for silence. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm not one for long speeches as you know, so I shan't take much of your time. On behalf of Gwyneth as well as myself, thank you all for coming here and making our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary such a memorable occasion. Thanks particularly to Watsonia for coming over the pond to entertain us, and to our own band of musicians for joining up with them. Of course you expected me to say all that, but now there's something else completely unexpected. It turned up only a few minutes ago. I shan't go into the ins and outs of the story, at least not this evening, but we have just now found out that Barbara Maxwell of Watsonia and my wife are almost certainly sisters, separated since early childhood. Yes, we're as staggered as you are. So now, please get on with enjoying yourselves while we try to get used to the new situation."

Gwyneth was naturally anxious to return the brooch at last to Cynthia, who wouldn't however hear of it. "No, no, my dear, it's just right on you, and on me it would be very much _de trop_. Keep it with my good wishes."

"But you must have something to make amends!"

"Well, all right, if you insist."

"I surely do. Let's go out tomorrow and find it; there should be time before your flight."

So after that, as the prisoner said to the judge, everything was hunky-dory. Even Barbara's missing luggage turned up just as we were about to leave. There obviously wasn't time for a proper family reunion on that visit, but Barbara arranged with the Wallaces to make plans for a real slap-up occasion later.

Back home, this familial revelation was the talk of the town, with the paper eager to publish some of the party snaps, and it probably boosted Watsonia's audience for the next performance quite a bit. That was last autumn. Now we have another piece of excitement, more conventional though none the less happy for that, coming up next month. Joan and Gordon are getting married and have asked me to give the bride away. Cynthia is to be Matron of Honour. I'm rather looking forward to it - so long as no one expects me to sing.

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##  THE LEGEND OF THE HURDY-GURDY

Harold Watkins was addicted to ferreting around in antique shops; real ones, not the fancy purveyors of meretricious tat that you find in any town with a holiday trade. To the intense irritation of his rather formidable wife he would spend hours searching to little if any effect through piles of what she would call rubbish. As often as not, to judge by the dust, they had been undisturbed for decades if not generations, usually for very obvious reasons, but just occasionally he found something worth his attention; once in a blue moon it would serve as a peace offering to Angela, of whom he was actually fonder than he would admit. Perhaps realising this she restrained the urge to nag him into a better occupation for his time, biting her tongue except when he became lost in his enthusiasm and missed an important engagement - important, at least, in her eyes. It was better than chasing other women, although on reflection she thought the idea of his summoning either the energy or the enthusiasm to chase anyone a shade grotesque.

One day however she lost patience. She had heard of a sale in a town a couple of dozen miles away, and with some difficulty persuaded Harold to drive her there. Directions given at the car park were fortunately precise: "Left at the roundabout, left again after a couple of hundred yards opposite Star Antiques, then first right and it's straight ahead" - to Harold's relief without the usual over-optimistic "You can't miss it." The mention of Star Antiques raised his spirits, until the first sight of it suggested that at best it was in the red dwarf category. Even so, browsing there was obviously preferable to serving as a beast of burden, and with some annoyance at not having the expected porter for her purchases, Angela agreed to meet him there when she had finished her shopping.

It went badly. She didn't get what she really wanted, and spent more than she intended on poor substitutes, so her temper was decidedly ragged as she strode into the back room of the shop to haul him out. There she found him staring up at a scrimshaw ship model on a high shelf, shuffling around to get different perspectives, in a familiar state of indecision. "For goodness' sake - still dithering? What's the matter with you?"

"I rather like the look of that ship, but I can't see what condition the other side is in."

"Of course you can't. You'll have to get it down."

"I can't reach it - at least, not without most likely damaging something."

Gritting her teeth, Angela silently counted three; she would have burst before reaching ten. "Then get the shopkeeper to do it for you. He must have a stepladder or something."

"I haven't seen one. And he's gone off for a few minutes. I'd have asked earlier only he was busy."

Angela was slightly taller and could probably reach the model, but Harold stopped her. "For goodness sake be careful. Those things can be very valuable."

"Then what on earth is it doing in the back room of a junk shop?" With some difficulty she took it down, and found it to be badly damaged on the far side. "Well, there you are; what did you expect?"

She was about to replace it but caught a glimpse of a curious object in the shadow behind and her manner suddenly changed. "Hang on to it a moment, Harold. There's something else here."

"What?"

"I can't tell. It looks interesting, but there are other things in the way. Is what's-his-name back yet?"

Harold took the ship, lodged it in a temporary berth and went in search, returning with an elderly man who looked as though he too might have been stuck on a shelf and forgotten for the past ten years. "Found something, have you?"

"Maybe. For the moment I just want to see what it is."

"I'll get the steps." He did so, and after shifting a few other things took down an oddly-shaped casing a couple of feet long, with a fairly elaborate sort of keyboard, an extension with a group of holes and a single remaining peg at one end, and a crank handle sticking out of a wheel housing towards the other.

Harold wondered what it was. The dealer too was puzzled. "That's funny. I've no idea. In fact I don't remember seeing it before. And the ship hasn't been there all that long."

Only half a century, Angela nearly suggested. Instead she asked if it might be on a stock list. "I used to have one. But I got behindhand with it and never caught up, so it hardly seemed worth keeping." Particularly with things you can't identify, thought Harold. He had a momentary day-dream of what the book might be like, with entries on the lines of "odd-looking gubbins that might be some sort of mechanical gadget" - not a great deal of help.

He was startled by Angela's asking "How much?"

"Eh?"

"What do you want for it?"

"Oh - er - say twenty quid."

"That's a bit steep when you don't know what it is. And didn't even know you had it." She tried turning the handle, which moved freely enough but without apparently doing anything in particular. "And whatever it's supposed to be, it obviously isn't complete. Most of these pegs are missing, and goodness knows what else besides."

"All right, fifteen?"

"Ten?"

"Done."

"Harold, have you ...?"

Harold, relieved to avoid a longer haggle, dutifully produced his wallet.

Outside he had more to say about it. "What on earth did you do that for? After all you've said about collecting worthless junk."

For once Angela was defensive and at a loss for a good answer. "It's peculiar - I just knew I had to have it. Don't worry, you'll get your ten pounds back."

"That isn't it. If it pleases you, that's good enough for me. I just wondered why."

"Put it down to feminine intuition, if you like."

"Intuition of what?"

"Oh, I don't know. Can't you simply say I wanted it and leave it there?"

Harold knew well enough not to dig further. He did however mention the incident to a friend when they next met. Andrew was only mildly interested in it as behaviour, since he maintained that there was no accounting for women's ways in general, but he was thoroughly intrigued by the description of the object. He suggested it might be some kind of hurdy-gurdy - an ancient and respectable instrument, he stressed, not to be confused with the Victorian street piano - and jumped at the chance when Harold asked if he would like to see it.

"Ah, yes, I thought so. It looks as though it would have one stopped string and four drones that could be selected by these buttons. They'd be anchored to the ring here, then passed over this bridge to be stroked by the wheel, and the pegs at the other end would adjust the tension."

And so on with a technical discussion of what strings could be used and how they might be set up. Harold found himself quite keen to do that and to hear what it would sound like. "Probably not brilliant. But with mechanical bowing and stopping, it should at least be less painful than you can get from a violin if you're not too good at it. And it might improve with use; they say a decent violin does, though I've never heard an explanation that made sense."

Soon afterwards Angela returned from an errand and Andrew explained the nature of her find over coffee. He too wondered casually what had induced her to buy it, and she had no better idea than before, especially since the urge to possess it had faded as suddenly as it had seized her. In fact ... "You seem particularly interested, Andrew."

"Yes, I've never come across one of these before, not to examine it. The odd one at a distance, or pictured in a book. Never close to."

"Would you like to have it, then?"

"What! Are you serious?"

"Yes, perfectly."

Harold was astonished. "What's come over you? After you were so keen to buy it."

"I don't know. I've changed my mind, that's all."

There was clearly no point in arguing, especially in view of her evident embarrassment; after all, it was traditionally a woman's prerogative, however puzzling it might be. Angela came back to the point. "Anyway, Andrew, how about it? It's yours if you'd like it."

"Well, if you're really sure ... I'd love to. It's a real treasure trove. How much ...?"

"Oh, don't worry about that. You're welcome to it."

"I hardly know what to say - but thank you very much indeed!"

They arranged that Harold would get his nephew to make replacements for the missing pegs, then deliver it to Andrew who would meanwhile get such strings as his violinist daughter-in-law might recommend. She happened to be visiting with her own teenage daughter on the day, and young Julia was immediately fascinated by the instrument, watching the fitting of the strings like a cat at a mouse hole. Several times Andrew had to tell her to get her nose out of the way. Deciding a suitable tuning for the strings took much discussion and experiment, but then of course Julia had to try playing it. Although a length of binding tape served for the time being as a sling, she still took a little while to get the hang of holding the case steady while cranking the wheel, but once she did and found her way round the keyboard, she produced some tunes that sounded promising if a little strange. In time she gradually became fairly proficient.

A few months later, Andrew mentioned a second-hand bookshop that had opened recently near his home, so of course Harold had to investigate. Most of the stock could be passed over with scarcely a glance: the inevitable pound-apiece box of shabby paperbacks, sheaves of old prints, a display of remaindered coffee-table blockbusters handsome enough but far from his interests, outdated technical manuals ("Modern Photography" with a torn dust-jacket depicting an early Leica) and rack after rack of novels and memoirs that probably hadn't been read for half a lifetime but lacked the attraction of greater age.

The shopkeeper, who had been occupied with a customer, approached and asked if he could help. Harold doubted it, but feeling it would be churlish to leave it at that, commented on the recent opening. Had he been in the trade elsewhere? "Yes, I was in a partnership, but it was going rather sour. The lease of this place came up, so we split the stock and here I am. What do you think of it?"

This put Harold on the spot, and the most diplomatic verdict he could give off the cuff, without a lie that would be betrayed by failing to purchase, was "Well - rather disappointing, I'm afraid."

"Ah. Were you looking for anything in particular?"

"I was hoping you might have some older stuff."

"Oh, sorry. My partner was more interested in that sort of thing. But now I come to think of it, there's a box in the store from a house that was being cleared a few weeks ago, and I haven't got round to sorting it yet. To be honest I'd forgotten about it. It was really only dumped here and I'm not too hopeful, but you're welcome to rummage through it if you like."

Harold took up the offer, chiefly out of courtesy. Unpromising as it was at first, he persisted and rather to his surprise found at the bottom a little volume on mediaeval and renaissance musical instruments that in view of recent events he thought might interest Andrew, even if he himself found little of value in it.

"Any good?" asked Angela when he returned home.

"Not much. But I did get this. More Andrew's line than mine, but it eased my conscience a bit."

"It's about time you learned to harden your heart when there's really nothing you want."

"I usually do, but ... well, he's newly set up and was helpful ... I'll just have a quick dip into it."

"Hmm. I know your quick dips. Remember, lunch will be ready in half an hour."

He had barely started when the telephone rang, a sales call that he dismissed more abruptly than usual. On returning he found that the book had fallen, fortunately without damage, but open at a different page where something caught his attention. "Hey! This is interesting!"

"What is?" came slightly muffled from the kitchen.

"It says here that Antonio Stradivari - "

"The violin-maker?"

"That's him - it says he used to tell a family legend about some mad ancestor who also made musical instruments and actually had quite a good reputation for them. But his particular pride was in his symphonies \- "

"I thought you said he was an instrument-maker, not a composer."

"Yes, 'symphony' at that time was a posh name for the hurdy-gurdy. Anyway, it seems he claimed they were better than rebecs, fiddles and the like. Utter nonsense, of course - they couldn't possibly match a bowed instrument."

"Why not?"

"You can get a better variety of tone and more expression with a separate bow."

"Perhaps they weren't up to such subtleties in his day."

"I suppose that's possible. There's no indication how far back the story went. At any rate he didn't think much of the musicians who came to him for instruments, and eventually said he was going to put his whole soul into a symphony so good that it would itself search out performers worthy of it. At that point the family decided that this whiff of sorcery was liable to get them all into serious trouble and told him to clear off - go away to England or somewhere - "

"Why England?"

"Because (it says) they're all mad there."

"Charming! What happened to him after that?"

"No one was quite sure, though there's a cock and bull tale about his making a bargain with the devil to put the extra powers into his masterpiece, and ending up being carried off to hell - you know the sort of thing. Probably all invented by the folks back home after he'd gone. The kind of story to tell at Halloween. Anyway, they used it as an awful warning to any of the clan who seemed to be getting a bit too big for his boots."

Angela thought the ancestor sounded an interesting character, and it was a pity not to know more about him. "Yes - supposing he really existed."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, maybe old Antonio just made up the tale to amuse his friends. Or one of his forebears cooked it up to put down a cocky youngster."

"There must have been something behind it. After all, there was even a real Faust. The same man, perhaps?"

"Faust was German. And there's nothing in the legends about his having anything much to do with music, is there?"

"Not that I know. But that doesn't mean he didn't."

"That way you could argue anything. And there's no need. There were all sorts of weird beliefs and practices about that time, and all sorts of people dabbling in them. It isn't like a provincial theatre - you don't have to economise on actors."

"That reminds me, did you remember to pick up the theatre programme?"

"Yes."

"Anything interesting?"

"I haven't looked at it yet. I put it somewhere - ah, yes, got it. Good lord!"

"What's the matter?"

"Guess what they're doing next month."

"I've no idea."

"Doctor Faustus!"

"A bit ambitious, isn't it? I shouldn't have said the company was big enough."

"If they're doing it in full. But you can double some of the parts, and a lot of the buffoonery with minor characters is often cut. Do you fancy seeing it?"

"Might be interesting. What else is there?"

"Nothing very exciting. Take a look."

"Not now - I'm just serving up. So come and get your lunch."

With Andrew and his wife they decided to make the theatre visit a foursome. Afterwards Harold mentioned to Andrew the story of Stradivari's ancestor and his supposed Faustian bargain for a super-symphony, which he thought seemed a very one-sided deal just for one instrument. "Well, it should at least have made his reputation."

"He had that already."

"Yes, as a good run-of-the-mill craftsman. He probably wanted more. And maybe there was more to it than that - supernaturally heightened skill in everything he did, perhaps. And probably a few choice perks on the side. These legends usually involve some more down-to-earth benefits, don't they? Like fabulous wealth, or being irresistible to any woman he fancied."

"I suppose so, if there was anything in it at all, which I very much doubt."

"You're just an old cynic, Harold."

"A sceptic, yes, where that sort of thing's concerned."

"I wonder - if you were offered that sort of bargain, what would you go for?"

"What's the point? It's never likely to happen."

"Something of the sort can these days with a lottery win."

"It can provide the wealth, yes. But that seems a very mixed blessing - positively ruinous, sometimes."

"Fair enough. But what else would you ask for?"

"I need notice of that question. One thing's certain - nothing on earth would make me irresistible to women!"

"Just as well," commented Angela, rejoining the conversation.

She had soon become impatient with all this fanciful speculation, and asked how Julia was getting on with her studies. "Quite well. But Ruth says she spends too much time on the hurdy-gurdy since Andrew lent it to her a while back, and the music teacher is afraid her piano-playing may suffer."

"Plenty of people do play two completely different instruments, don't they?"

"Yes, but the teacher thinks that Julia has just about enough practice time for one, quite apart from the little matter of ability. And if she ever did take up another, it ought to be something still in general use, with wider possibilities and a standard repertoire. One of the woodwinds, perhaps."

"What does Julia say to that?"

"It's rather worrying. She gets unreasonably cross whenever it's put to her."

"The awkward age?"

"A year or two ago I'd have put it down to that. She was difficult over all sorts of things. But she seemed to be getting more amenable lately - until this came along."

"I didn't know you'd lent the hurdy-gurdy to Julia," Angela commented to Andrew.

"Yes, it seemed sensible, though I'm sorry if it's caused trouble. I'd had a good look at it and satisfied my immediate curiosity. And it was more convenient for Julia than having to come round to my place when she wanted to play it. It's easier for me to go there if I want. You don't mind, do you?"

"Not at all. It was a gift, with no strings attached."

"True," remarked Harold. "We fitted those later. Sorry -" as Angela threw a cushion at him; "You did rather walk into that one. I couldn't resist it."

"You wouldn't try!"

Andrew was startled. "Angela! What's bitten you? I do believe you're getting positively kittenish."

"How do you mean?"

"If I hadn't seen it myself, I'd have thought the idea of your going in for anything like pillow-fighting was too bizarre for words."

He was right, Harold realised; Angela was habitually as staid a matron as could be imagined. But now he thought of it, she did seem to have become more relaxed recently. With a jolt he remembered her sharing a joke with the postman the day before, and his thinking it rather odd in a way that he couldn't quite pin down. That was it; it would have been unthinkably out of character a year or even six months earlier. "Well, we can't stand on our dignity all the time, can we?" she said.

"Is that the royal we?"

"No, it applies to all of us."

A bit sweeping, Harold thought. He tried to remember an occasion when he had stood on his dignity, but failed miserably. It wasn't in his nature, and besides, with Angela around he never felt he had enough dignity to stand on; it wouldn't bear his weight. Still, if it meant she was going to be less prickly in future, that was all to the good and there was no point in spoiling it by quibbling.

Julia meanwhile was at a party and not enjoying it. She had always been serious-minded, if anything a bit of a loner, not to say a prude. The invitation to a neighbour's eighteenth birthday celebration at a large hotel nearby had been sent only as a formal courtesy, as she knew perfectly well, and an excuse would neither have surprised nor offended anyone; quite the reverse. Indeed, she would not have accepted but for the urging of her mother. Much as Ruth pushed her to succeed in her studies, she worried about the lack of social contact, so although Julia would have greatly preferred a quiet evening with a book, she was persuaded to go for the sake of peace at home.

She delayed as long as she could so that the party was in full swing when she arrived, and came fully down to her expectations. The noise was barely tolerable, conversation impossible even if she had seen anyone who might want it, she drank at most in moderation and had no time at all for the other stimulants that she supposed were to blame for much of what she was disgusted to see going on. After fending off several clumsy approaches by lads who would never have given her a second glance when sober or if their original partners were still upright, she escaped into the garden for a breath of fresh air. Given a break in the racket she would try to thank Sylvia and leave. Otherwise, she would leave anyway after a decent interval. No one would miss her.

The night was clear but rather chilly so she wandered over to a summerhouse that promised some shelter from a light breeze. On the threshold she stumbled and fell against someone already there, a man she guessed to be about twenty, who caught her and hushed her apologies. He introduced himself as Sylvia's brother Martin, down from university for the occasion but no more impressed than Julia by the proceedings, although that was not his only reason for being out there: the view of the stars was better than he would normally get. "Are you interested in those things, then?"

"Well, the night sky is beautiful. I don't often get a chance to see it so well - too much artificial light near my digs."

"Can you recognise all the constellations?"

"A few. You know the Plough, I suppose, over there, with the Pole Star in line with the two stars opposite the handle. On the other side of the pole the big W is Cassiopeia. That way the V on its side is Taurus and the rather faint little group to the right is the Pleiades. Then behind Taurus, Orion is just coming up, with the particularly bright reddish star in the top left corner. That's really spectacular in winter. And there I run out!"

Julia was impressed. "Is that what you're studying?"

"No, I'm reading maths. Star-gazing is just a bit of light relaxation."

"Do you have any other? When it's cloudy, for instance."

"As it happens, yes. I'm in a small early music group."

"Not quite the sort of thing Sylvia's brought in!"

Martin shuddered. "No indeed. We go mostly for Tudor and Stuart stuff."

"Very civilised. Period instruments, I suppose?"

"Not originals, of course, but copies or imitations for the most part. A modern fiddle fits in fairly well, luckily."

The wind was rising and Julia shivered. He asked if she would like to go inside. "I think I'd better go. The noise seems to be getting worse."

"May I see you home, then?"

"Thank you - I'd like that."

Under a clear sky the wind grew cooler as they walked, and after a moment's hesitation she invited Martin in for a coffee to warm him up. "That's all I'm offering, by the way. Apart perhaps from a biscuit or two."

He remembered how a particularly strait-laced friend had been embarrassed to find on one occasion that very much more than coffee was expected, to huge amusement when the tale got out. Not that Martin had thought Julia at all likely to be a man-eater, but on the whole he was glad to avoid any risk of misunderstanding. "Thanks. That would be very welcome."

When she went to prepare the coffee, he noticed the hurdy-gurdy where she had left it before going out. He was still examining it when she returned with a tray. "Oh, you've found that old thing."

"Yes, it's quite remarkable. There aren't many about. Where on earth did you get it?"

"It isn't mine. Grandad was given it by a friend, and lent it to me because I was interested."

"Do you mind if I try it?"

"Not at all - but have your coffee first."

From his first touch he seemed to have a natural affinity with the instrument, but after a few minutes he stopped and looked doubtful. "What's the matter, Martin?"

"Something's not quite right. I think it might be better with different tuning. May I alter it?"

"Go ahead. We had no idea what it should be - that's just the first we found that seemed to work tolerably well."

Martin adjusted the tensions a few times, then found a set-up that pleased him and played a few simple tunes. "That's marvellous - how did you do it?"

"I went for what would naturally suit some of the music we have from that age. I'd love to be able to play it with the rest of the group."

By this time Julia's parents had returned from an evening engagement but waited for an opportune moment before coming in and being introduced. "That last bit sounded a good deal better than Julia's efforts. What have you done to it?"

Martin explained, and then wondered, very tentatively, if there could be any possible chance of borrowing the instrument occasionally. Ruth looked questioningly at Julia, who swallowed a few times before suggesting that in fact Andrew might well be willing to give it to him. "But surely ..."

"I think he'd want it to go to whoever played it best. And that seems to be you."

Martin eventually agreed that Julia should ask her grandfather about it, and then it was time for him to go. The good-nights at the door seemed to take rather a long while, and Ruth looked quizzically across at her husband. Cyril responded with a wink. "Seems a nice lad," he simply said.

At his celestial window, Alessandro Stradivari chuckled happily. An incurable romantic, he had been an inveterate match-maker in his later years, sometimes with disastrous results. It was as well that only a part of the wizardry invested in his favourite symphony had been remembered, and at that the less important part. But this one looked promising. Yes, he thought as the friendship developed, very promising indeed. Or so the legend goes.

Return to Contents

##  CULTURE SHOCK

You can get dreadfully blasé about travel: going half-way round the world is nothing these days. And if you're on a long business trip, staying in the usual international hotels that all look much alike, you can sometimes be hard put to tell one country from another. "It's Tuesday, this must be Taiwan" and all that. It's the big jets that have done it, of course, rushing people around the globe by the hundred - not that I'm complaining, mind you. I'd certainly have been glad if everything had been laid on half so conveniently when I first went abroad for the firm.

That was back in the late 1940s, but I still remember it well. Things were a lot less organised then, particularly with the war being so recently over and some of the scars still showing. Old Perkin called me into his office one day and explained that there was a big installation job coming up overseas, and the reputation of Perkin and Warbeck depended on it (actually there wasn't a Warbeck, and never had been, but he thought that a double-barrelled company name sounded more impressive than his own by itself, and anyway he had a penchant for historical allusion). I'd heard about that particular contract, but didn't know much about it, so Perkin gave me a quick briefing. I'll say this for him, he knew a damn sight more about what was going on in his business than a lot of directors do now. He was especially emphatic about the importance of time.

"We've estimated ten weeks to finish. There's a bit of leeway, but it's vital to take no more than three months," he insisted. "A day longer and the penalty clauses really start to bite, and bang goes our chance of the follow-up contracts. Any trouble could put the job back by weeks, and everything depends on good relations with the local people. Pendennis and his men will do the actual engineering work, of course, or at least our share of it. You'll be in charge of liaison. I need hardly warn you not to tread on their toes. Oh yes, and you're to go out three weeks on Tuesday to see that everything's ready before they get there."

"Why me, of all people?"

"Well, you know the lingo, don't you?"

"Yes, I've studied it, but ..."

"That's settled, then. My secretary will see to the travel arrangements. Good luck!"

At least that was something. The secretary was a bit of a dragon, but efficient in a cold-blooded sort of way, and any arrangements she made would work, whatever they cost in lost sleep and frayed nerves: my nerves, of course, not hers. I was more concerned about coping once I got to the other end, not so much on the technical side - after all, engineers are engineers, wherever they are - but with the simple problems of living in a strange country for a substantial spell. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted advice.

The question was, where to get it? There were plenty of ex-servicemen around who had been abroad, but along with so many thousands of others that it was more like taking a bit of England away with them, and the relations with civilians that they described (usually after the third pint) were not quite what I supposed Perkin had in mind. An uncomfortably large part of the three weeks had passed before the obvious answer struck me: my Uncle Edward, a retired missionary, who had been pretty well everywhere in his time, although by then he seldom went much further than the next county. He said he'd done quite enough wandering already, and had earned a rest. After decades of putting up with primitive conditions, he also thought he'd earned the right to indulge himself a little, particularly with a favoured guest.

As it happened, a spinster aunt had left him a bundle of half-forgotten shares that had appreciated enough for him to buy a small property in a neighbouring village, stock the cellar remarkably well for those days, and still convert the residue into a comfortable annuity. He was looked after by a middle-aged cook-housekeeper whom he always called Dame Margery, but didn't get much other company, and was glad of any excuse to lay on the nearest thing she could manage to a slap-up dinner with all the trimmings.

On the evening we arranged, Dame Margery had produced one of her better efforts, so that by the second or third glass of port, we were both pleasantly relaxed and conversation was flowing easily. He'd given me some useful tips about easily-overlooked bits of personal kit that would be handy to have with me, such as a good selection of buttons and thread, and others that seemed important but would probably be more trouble than they were worth. Naturally, he also wanted to know where precisely I was going, what the job involved, and in particular how well I was prepared for social mixing during several months in a basically unfamiliar culture. "You can't talk engineering all the time, after all."

"That's not what Perkin thinks."

I had actually given some thought to that point since Perkin's bombshell. The local librarian relished a challenge and had done me proud with a selection of relevant literature, which I'd studied carefully besides revising the language, so that I was more than a shade too glib about expecting no serious problems in that line at least.

"Very dangerous attitude," Edward muttered darkly, glancing at the skull-like object that formed an incongruously macabre centre-piece on the mantel. I'd always thought it an odd place for a _memento mori_. "You can easily drop the most frightful bricks. Angels fear to tread, you know."

Then he clammed up completely, which really intrigued me. No one had ever suggested dark secrets in Edward's past, and he wasn't usually reticent about it. In fact, given his head, he could be a bore of county if not international class, so this must have been something right out of the ordinary. Remembering the "third pint" effect, I made a point of seeing that the decanter always came to rest by his hand, and eventually the story emerged.

It happened early in his missionary life. A much older member of his society, call him Gregory for the present, had been working in a fresh area of New Guinea, at that time nowhere near as civilised as it is now and a notoriously dodgy place to go. He had just started to establish himself when he fell ill with one of the nastier tropical diseases. At least he survived, more than could be said of his colleague, but had to be invalided home for treatment, promising his flock to go back as soon as possible. His recovery, although disappointingly slow, now seemed to be complete, and Edward was considered just experienced enough to replace the dead colleague - not a very encouraging prospect.

Edward was seldom given to strong likes or dislikes, but Gregory proved an exception. He was a man of vast and distinguished experience, who had abandoned a brilliant academic career twenty years earlier to serve in the missions, and many of the young ordinands would have given their eye teeth for the chance to understudy him. Edward detested him on sight. The feeling was evidently mutual, and deepened with closer acquaintance to the extent that Edward tentatively asked whether another assignment might be more appropriate. He got short shrift from the Superior, one of the old no-nonsense type, who sharply reminded him that he was there to do the will of the Lord, not to serve his own inclinations; there was no one else available anyway, Gregory hadn't complained, and if he could put up with an uncongenial companion, so much more easily should a younger man. Edward thought better of raising the obvious objection to that argument, and just resigned himself to a disagreeable tour of duty.

At least on the ship it was possible by careful management to keep out of each others' way except at meal times. Edward tried his best at first to make conversation on these painful occasions, but eventually they agreed tacitly to minimise friction by rigid politeness within a rule of near-silence. Then, half-way across the Indian Ocean, they ran into a storm that pretty well confined them to their cabin. Gregory's illness flared up again in the heat, the ship's doctor was himself laid up after losing his balance during a particularly violent twisting roll and cracking his head on a bulkhead, and so Edward had to nurse Gregory as best he could.

The basic medical training he had received was hardly up to dealing with anything serious, and by the time they reached Darwin it was quite obvious that Gregory was not going anywhere just then - if ever - but into hospital. Edward was almost frantic with qualms of conscience over his antagonism, and hovered around wondering whether his duty lay in staying with the sick man or pressing on, until eventually the nurses made it none too tactfully clear that he was more hindrance than help. Accordingly he got what directions he could and carried on towards the destination.

That was itself a long enough journey, first by tramp steamer to Port Moresby, then by coaster, river launch and finally a series of dug-out canoes to a long-house in the jungle, well up a narrow valley in the mountains. All the way Edward was wondering what sort of reception he could expect, but he needn't have worried on that score. The inhabitants had scrupulously reserved the area that Gregory had adapted as a little chapel and sleeping quarters, and were delighted to have them in use again.

Of an evening they would happily sit for hours listening to tales of the outside world, even if they took them with a large pinch of salt, and Edward, ever talkative, was equally glad to oblige. In return the villagers taught him how to eke out the supplies he had brought with him (he didn't want to rely entirely on the generosity of people poorer than himself, however willing they might be to support him) by catching fish, gathering wild fruits and generally following their way of subsistence.

Eventually it dawned on him that he was doing fine socially, but making very little impression on the people's tolerant scepticism about an alien religion. Their culture was animistic, seeing every natural feature as the home of a controlling spirit that had to be placated for any interference - understandable, where the caprice of nature could make all the difference between relative prosperity and starvation, but providing scarcely a toe-hold for Christian teaching. The villagers were mostly content with the beliefs of their ancestors: the white man might deal with whatever powers he liked, but what could his god know about their crops and the spirits of the forest, their fish traps and the river demons, and so on?

There were a few exceptions, however, generally youngsters simply rebelling against the traditions of their elders, but the odd one or two with genuinely inquiring minds. Edward decided to concentrate his efforts on them. For a while he feared that the older people might resent any influence he gained with their offspring, and he therefore made a special point of stressing respect for them, but they generally seemed to think his ideas a curiously irrelevant folly rather than any kind of threat. In any case it gave them some relief from coping with the more irritating antics of adolescents.

He picked the least unpromising of his little group, a lively teenager whom he called Joseph, to train as an assistant, despite a strong suspicion that the lad regarded Christianity as the coming thing and was more concerned about his status in the present world than in the next. Occasionally he showed alarming tendencies to order the others around more than was necessary. Still, he was a likable and resourceful rogue, who in time became a good friend.

Edward's next concern was about the mode of address that tribal etiquette demanded he should choose for use at their instruction sessions: "My Father" (an accepted title of respect) seemed too Romish, "Reverend" too colloquial, "Padre" too military, "Teacher belong big chief in sky," suggested by one of the lads, tolerably accurate but altogether too cumbersome. Joseph had his own solution to that problem. Edward was simply "The Boss," and despite his reservations, the term stuck.

He kept plugging away, but putting across the basic ideas of Christianity even to his chosen few was an uphill task. One God, well, yes, every village had a head man, so why not a supreme being over everything, while the distinction between angels and minor deities could be put aside for the time being. "Take not the name of the Lord in vain," again, you didn't insult the chief with impunity. "Honour thy father and mother," they did that anyway, more or less. But some of the later Commandments were trickier, especially what they did or did not prohibit.

"Thou shalt not kill" gave him particular difficulty. No, it didn't cover killing animals for food. No, it didn't invariably cover killing people either, although that was to be avoided if at all possible. "Then where does it apply, Boss?"

"Look at it this way. If someone's going for you with a hatchet on the crossing above the waterfall, you might at a pinch tip him in the river. But not if he's doing you no harm and you just want a clear run at his wife."

So that of course led him on to the next one. He tried lightening his explanations with a rendering of the old jingle "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife, his ox thou shalt not slaughter, but thank the Lord it is not a sin to covet thy neighbour's daughter." It was a mistake: the verse translated clumsily into the local dialect, and merely confused everyone. He didn't risk any further attempts at humour in his teaching.

After six months with very little headway, Edward needed a break. There was no chance of home leave, of course, or even a week in Port Moresby, but perhaps he might usefully visit a neighbouring tribe that had aroused his curiosity, along the one overgrown track through the jungle and over the ridge. At least he could spy out the land and the prospects for work there. Joseph, however, was far from keen. His father had come across some of the Deeka: they were a strange people, their ways were not his ways, and he didn't relish meddling with them. Admittedly they weren't usually hostile or even unfriendly, but they certainly were unpredictably touchy about some things and formidable if roused, so that it was wise to give them a respectfully wide berth.

As it happened, during his training Edward had read an anthropological study of a group that had migrated to the coast but claimed descent from the Deeka and to have kept faithfully the traditions of their ancestors. What he could remember of it was encouraging, particularly their rule of meticulous courtesy to strangers who might be the incarnation of powerful spirits, as he carefully explained to Joseph.

"All very well for you, Boss. You look like a what-do-you-call-it spirit. I don't."

"But yours is a very great spirit, Joseph."

"The Deeka don't know that. To them I'll be just an ordinary lad from the next village - and from the wrong valley, what's more."

By now Edward was confident of handling anything short of overwhelming physical violence, which seemed an unlikely prospect, so Joseph's objections were overruled. It said a lot for the lad's loyalty that despite his grave misgivings, reinforced by his mother's alarm, he nevertheless went along with the plan and was a great help in organising supplies for the expedition. He even insisted on carrying most of them.

In the event the Deeka were even more hospitable than Edward had expected. After the initial surprise at the arrival of unaccustomed visitors from beyond the ridge, they were taken to the chief, who welcomed them with a traditional exchange of courtesies. He received their gifts graciously, asked their business and seemed satisfied by Edward's carefully diplomatic answer that he had heard much of the Deeka's lore and wished to study it at first hand. The chief for his part had heard rumours about the strange ways of Europeans, but never met one before, and was mildly curious, enough to order that they should be given the best available lodging and shown every consideration.

Edward and Joseph were thus free to go about talking to anyone they wished. However, it wouldn't do to push the privilege too far by interrupting important work, so they generally started by taking a morning stroll, finding someone not particularly busy, and asking the sort of questions that might be expected of any friendly stranger. Then, when the opportunity offered, they gradually worked round to matters of religion. For instance, Edward might ask about the local belief in this or that, perhaps express respectful surprise at some aspect of it, and so invite questions about his own ideas. People generally heard him politely if without great enthusiasm, and he was tolerably satisfied with progress.

One of the most interesting characters in the village was Jinato, a sort of shaman or witch-doctor to the tribe. He was a wizened but bright-eyed old man, totally pagan yet blessed with a natural wisdom and quick intelligence that Edward found deeply impressive. Indeed, some of the points he raised were very hard to answer within the context of the tribe's experience and Edward's knowledge of it; on the other hand, he was open-minded enough to recognise limitations in that experience. The two men had many long and animated discussions, never conclusive but always interesting.

Edward was a little puzzled at the attitude of Joseph, who after the first two of these sessions suddenly developed an eagerness for more of them that contrasted sharply with his initial scarcely-concealed impatience. "Isn't it time for another talk with Jinato?" he would say, or "How about trying such-and-such a line on that argument?" The curious thing was that he never stayed to hear the outcome of his suggestions, but always excused himself as soon as courtesy permitted. The mystery was solved when Edward caught sight of him engaged in light-hearted banter with one of Jinato's grand-daughters, a comely girl approaching marriageable age.

About a week after their arrival, the village celebrated a festival that was to culminate in a grand supper. One kind of dried fish among the supplies that Joseph had brought was apparently a rare delicacy among the Deeka, so he asked if he might contribute it to the menu. Edward didn't particularly care for it and agreed readily. Perhaps partly as a result, perhaps because of the friendship he had struck up with Jinato, he was treated as a guest of honour, seated next to the chief. He was more than a little embarrassed by the privilege, especially as it was not extended to Joseph, who nevertheless urged him not to worry; Edward realised why when he saw that Jinato's grand-daughter was among the serving maids and giving Joseph far more than his fair share of attention, which he obviously didn't mind at all. Relieved on that score, he relaxed and started looking around him.

There was one other girl who caught Edward's attention; indeed, he could hardly miss her. Becoming a missionary hadn't dimmed his eye for the ladies, and this one had an attractive figure, features more to European than to local taste, and a particularly graceful manner. Edward had seen her about the village, and understood that she was an orphan, stranded years before when her parents had wandered in from no-one knew where, suffering from some unidentified and eventually fatal illness. One of the chief's junior wives had taken pity on the child, but the circumstances of her arrival seemed an ill omen and she was still something of a Cinderella.

Her position in the chief's household however gave her some status, and she was serving at what Edward couldn't help thinking of as the "high table," even though with everyone alike sitting on the ground the term was a little inapt. Towards the end, after she had gently pressed him to take yet another helping and smilingly accepted that he had had quite enough, he casually complimented the chief on his charming attendant. "You like her? Good, you shall have her. The wedding will be in three days' time."

Edward was flabbergasted. Thoughts tumbled through his mind about trying to explain that to admire a girl's appearance and deportment was one thing, but to marry her, practically unknown, was another. No, in this culture it wouldn't cut any ice at all. And while he had no objections in principle to a married clergy and neither had his society, its views on miscegenation as a source of envy, friction and scandal were hardly likely to go down well - particularly as they might justifiably be thought a mere rationalisation of prejudice. With suitable expressions of regret and appreciation, he therefore said simply that overwhelmed as he was by the chief's generosity, such a match would be strictly taboo.

The merriment of the evening came to an abrupt halt. Joseph, whose attention had been caught by the sudden hush that descended at the chief's words, looked horror-struck, Jinato scowled and the chief frowned like thunder. Edward wasn't sure what was wrong, still less how to put it right, and decided that discretion was the better part of valour. He therefore apologised in general terms and withdrew with what grace he could, leaving the chief and witch-doctor in agitated discussion amid a general clamour of consternation.

Joseph followed, asking how all this had come about. Edward told him. "That wasn't very clever, Boss."

"I know, but how would you have got out of it?"

"I shouldn't have got into it."

"True, I dare say, but not very helpful. What do I do now?"

They agreed that he should stay mostly in the hut for the next few days, communing with the spirits if anyone asked, while Joseph tested the social atmosphere. It was decidedly chilly as far as Edward was concerned. Some of the disgrace inevitably rubbed off on to Joseph, but he didn't let it daunt his spirits, and his natural friendliness was more than the villagers could resist for long. Then for a time he was very busy coming and going, and decidedly uncommunicative about it. "I'm working on it, Boss," he would say when asked about progress, and that was about as much as could be got out of him. Edward was dubious, noticing that Joseph's steps usually led towards the spot where Jinato's grand-daughter - Eve, as Edward came for some reason to think of her - was usually to be found preparing food or doing other household chores. He was half right; that was indeed the place, but after a few words with Eve, Joseph would concentrate his attention on her father, Jinato's favourite son. It did no harm to his chances with the girl anyway, and why not kill two birds with one stone? Even so, his main efforts were devoted to restoring Edward's position.

Everything he said about it was passed on, subtly re-phrased where necessary, to Jinato himself, who after his initial anger was very willing to be persuaded that the whole business was a terrible misunderstanding. He had no wish to prolong a quarrel that could bring nothing but harm to anyone. Neither had the chief, once his offended dignity had been assuaged. So, without any embarrassing contact between the principals to the dispute, Joseph was eventually able to announce his triumph.

"Done it, Boss."

"Done what?"

"Sorted out your problem."

"That's marvellous, Joseph! However did you manage it?"

"No time for details, Boss. There'll be a message coming from the chief any minute now, and it's important you give the right reply."

"What's that?"

"Well, you'll be invited to a ceremony of reconciliation . . ."

"I'll obviously accept - what's the difficulty?"

"Please, Boss, don't interrupt. There isn't time. You have to reply in a particular form of words - 'I deeply regret having given offence to the mighty Chief, I thank him for his gracious forbearance, I gratefully accept his offer of reconciliation, and I wish the whole village to share in it."

"Why that?"

"Because the girl has no parents, she belongs to the whole village, therefore the whole village was offended by your refusing her, so it must be included in the reconciliation. Now come along, Boss, practise your speech before the messengers arrive, for goodness' sake." So they did, and he got it near enough right to satisfy everyone, except perhaps Joseph.

The ceremony was to take place during another banquet the following Saturday - any excuse, thought Edward in a moment of cynicism. After that, he felt, it might be wise to leave before he put his foot in it again. On the other hand, going away so suddenly might cause yet more offence, but judicious enquiries by Joseph confirmed that none would be taken.

Once arrangements were made, tension in the village promptly relaxed amid a bustle of activity. There was much gathering of fruit, pounding of roots, snaring of pigeons and hunting of jungle pig. Edward felt able to move around freely again, and even if the missionary message was no more welcome than before, he was satisfied for the present to be back personally in favour. Besides, he had to rehearse his part in the ceremony; also to prepare a speech, so Joseph had told him, to be given at the end of the banquet. Fortunately Eve's father was willing to act as a critical audience and point out any infelicities, of which there were plenty in the early drafts.

Come Saturday, the ceremony was a splendid occasion with songs, dances and athletic displays before the formal banquet. Edward had to be seated next to the chief again as the rubrics required them to join hands, declare to each other the intention that any animosity should be as dead as the garnished joint of meat placed between them, that the two men and the whole village should be united in spirit by sharing it, and that all misunderstandings should vanish like the smoke of the fire over which it had been roasted. Edward was highly relieved to get it over, and then began to enjoy the meal.

It was in fact excellent as jungle fare went, particularly since he and the chief received the choicest portions, and he did them full justice. He couldn't help noticing that Joseph, aided and abetted by Eve, wasn't letting the side down in that respect, either; a few thoughts on the deadly sin of gluttony crossed his mind, but he dismissed them as ungracious in view of Joseph's part in retrieving the situation; and for his own part, he had to keep up a good appearance on this of all occasions, didn't he?

After privately complimenting the chief on the opulence of the feast, he ended by delivering his carefully prepared and highly flattering speech of thanks and farewell, praising the greatness and magnanimity of the Chief, the wisdom of Jinato, the skill of the cooks, the assiduity of the serving maids, the prowess of the young men . . . he was tempted to go beyond his script by adding the beauty of the village maidens, but decided at the last minute that in the first place it wasn't strictly true, and in the second it might lead to more difficulties of the kind from which he had so narrowly been rescued. So he concluded by presenting his parting gifts - a more propitious occasion than before their departure early the next morning - and professing the hope that friendship between the Deeka and his base tribe would thrive and endure. These sentiments the chief heartily endorsed, to thunderous applause for both of them from the whole assembly.

The journey home the next day was uneventful, and Edward was happier than he could have believed possible to stumble down the last few yards of the track, clean himself up with a quick splash in the river, and relax in the section of the longhouse that he had come to regard as his own. The villagers were glad to have him back, too; he was a popular figure, whatever they might think of his teaching, and they had been anxiously recalling the evidently well-founded worries about dealing with the Deeka. Joseph's family, of course, made a great fuss of their son, all the more after Edward had praised the lad's part in saving him from goodness knew what disaster.

The tribe rarely knew much variety in the routine of survival, and the expedition was naturally the main topic of conversation for weeks. Joseph was a born story-teller, and his account lost nothing with repetition. But he was practical, too: the way in which his "luxury" goods had been received in the Deeka village was not lost on him, neither was the quality of the arrowheads and utensils he had seen there, items for which there was a demand in his village and probably elsewhere in the valley. Before long he was back over the ridge to do some trading, not to mention a visit to Eve, and these visits became more and more frequent.

For some reason there was now quite a flood of people suddenly wanting religious instruction. Edward needed his assistant, and found Joseph's absences a definite hindrance. "I'm sorry, Boss," he said when Edward tackled him about it, "I've done my best, but I'm not really cut out for the job, and I do have a business to look after now. Look, there's Benjamin, he's picked up everything I've learned and more, and he hasn't my - er - distractions. Why not get him to help here? I don't mind doing what I can among the Deeka on my visits there."

"I think I know who'll get the main benefit of that!"

Whatever the motives, Edward had to agree that there was a lot of sense in the suggestion: Benjamin (Joseph's younger brother) was keen if not quite so intelligent, and after a day or two of reflection was duly appointed. Now Edward was able to make some real progress, concentrating on the more advanced pupils while Benjamin prepared the starters. Within a year half the village was involved, so far that for many of them Edward was able to arrange a mass baptism; and of the other half, a good proportion were showing signs of interest while hardly any were totally implacable.

Meanwhile traffic on the path over the ridge was steadily increasing. Edward himself seldom returned that way, although he scrupulously sent greetings and occasional gifts by way of the traders. One occasion when he did go, during the second summer after his first visit, was to act more or less as Joseph's best man though also as officiating pastor, escorting Eve (now so christened) back for the wedding.

Another, some months later, was to attend Jinato's funeral after he had succumbed to a mercifully brief illness. Edward travelled with Joseph and Eve. The path had been improved beyond recognition, with steps in the steeper parts reinforced by logs to prevent erosion, so that it was possible to talk almost normally on the way. Since one of Edward's pet phrases was "No salvation without belief," Eve was desperately anxious to know what he thought of her grandfather's fate. The official line on virtuous pagans wouldn't be much comfort to her, Edward realised, and he was reduced to platitudes about God's justice being no less generous than man's. Later, as he stood before the old, lined face, so completely different without its animating sparkle, the utter inadequacy of his words overwhelmed him and he had to turn away to hide tears. They were noticed. That a man from outside the tribe - indeed, from far beyond the most distant horizon that any of them could imagine - that such a man should share their grief at the loss of a dearly respected elder did more to win over the Deeka than could any amount of words and gifts.

Time inexorably passed. For various reasons, missionaries of Edward's society were generally moved around every few years. By the time his tour of duty drew to an end, the contrast with what he had found on arrival was striking. A new church was going up to replace the ramshackle structure that he had built when the tiny "chapel" could no longer hold his congregation, and which was now itself hopelessly inadequate. The villagers, realising that the longhouse partitions were anything but sound-proof and that some of the noises passing through them might be disturbing to a celibate, had also built him a separate hut for himself, after delicate enquiries through Joseph on whether he might misunderstand it as an exclusion from the community. Three-quarters of them were committed to Christianity, if not yet actually baptised, with half the rest hovering; and besides Eve, who was a special case, there had actually been some tentative approaches from the Deeka to suggest that they would like to hear more of what he had touched on during his original stay with them. If certain regrettable superstitions still lingered on - well, that could equally be said about plenty of communities with more centuries of Christian tradition than his village had years. All in all, Edward couldn't help congratulating himself on the situation he was leaving for his successor. He would almost have been glad to show it off to Gregory, who had however been shipped back permanently to England on health grounds.

As the day of departure approached, Edward sensed an air of furtive excitement among his flock. Whenever he joined any group of people talking, there would be an obviously contrived change of subject, but odd phrases came to his ears. In time, Benjamin let slip what Edward had already guessed, that a special gift was being prepared for him. What it might be was another matter; obviously all would be revealed at the presentation, but it occurred to him that he really ought to check, before there was any public embarrassment, whether it was something he could legitimately accept. The people were still poor, if less so than previously, and Edward was very anxious not to take anything of undue value. Perhaps he could worm some hint out of Joseph, who was sure to be involved.

It was a moonlit evening when Edward walked from his own hut towards the part of the longhouse occupied by Joseph's family, but none of the villagers seemed to be about. However, as he approached, he noticed someone scurrying away, glancing over his shoulder and trying with comic lack of success to hide what looked like a pale globe on a carved wooden plinth. That was probably the gift, Edward thought with some relief: he'd never seen anything quite like it, but it was presumably a piece of local craft-work. To accept it wouldn't deprive the village of precious resources, it would be a pleasant memento, and it looked reasonably transportable too.

Joseph greeted him warmly, and Eve fussed around making him comfortable and offering refreshments - was she? Yes, almost certainly she was pregnant, after so long that Joseph's mother had been seen sadly shaking her head over the prospects of grandchildren from that quarter. Congratulations were evidently in order, and Joseph thanked him absently but seemed oddly depressed.

"What's up?" Edward asked. "I'd have thought you'd be rejoicing."

"Look, Boss, how long have we known each other?"

"Must be about five years - yes, easily that."

"And we've been good friends?"

"The best."

"Yet you're going away next week and we probably shan't see you again."

Edward was silent for a moment. "But Joseph, life's like that. I have to obey orders. And there'll be someone to take my place, don't forget."

"We can't change our friends as easily as you change your shirt, Boss."

"Now you know I wasn't suggesting that. Look, however far apart we may be, we can pray for each other."

It didn't seem to help Joseph much. "We could pray for Jinato when he was ill - and we did - but it wasn't the same as crossing the ridge to see him. And we can't do that now."

"I'm afraid that's the way of things, Joseph. All human friendships must come to an end sooner or later in any case. None of us lives for ever. But eventually we'll meet again in the next world."

"All very well, Boss, but my problem's in this one."

Edward sighed, but could think of no way out of this impasse. He had a strong suspicion that Joseph's attitude to the hereafter was rather like a bank manager's to an unsecured loan, and the best he could do was to try changing the subject. As it happened there was one thing that had been puzzling him for long enough: why the sudden spate of interest in Christianity after the first visit to the Deeka?

"That's simple. The people thought that to make such a display of courage, you must have protection from some really powerful spirits, and they wanted a share."

"Well, that's true in a sense. But what display of courage?"

"Why, refusing the chief's offer of a wife, of course. You knew the ways of the Deeka, you must have known you were as good as asking for death. Isn't that right?"

Edward was stunned. "Good Lord, I'd no idea."

"Come off it, Boss. You told me you'd read all about them."

"Not all, Joseph. You can't learn everything just by reading. You have to live with people for years to know them properly - and even then they can surprise you. A book couldn't cover all the details, even if the author knew them."

"I wouldn't call this a detail, Boss."

"No, you're right. And that particular point wasn't mentioned in the account I read. Are you sure about it?"

"Absolutely. Eve's father explained it to me. You know that if you're visiting someone, and admire something he has, then he has to offer it to you?"

"That's true in a lot of places. I hadn't thought of it just then, though - silly of me. But surely, once the offer was made, honour was satisfied even if I declined it? After all, I'd have thought I was fulsome enough in thanking the chief."

"That's not the point, Boss. In Deeka custom a gift can't be refused. It's now your property, so the chief can't keep it without becoming a thief. It's taboo. And if you don't accept it, he's stuck with it."

"He could give it to someone else."

"No good, Boss. You can't give away someone else's property. Or if you do, it makes things worse."

"All right, I see that. But where does the bit about 'asking for death' come in?"

"Well, it seems that this sort of problem had cropped up before. Not in quite the same way, but close enough. Then someone pointed out that if the man who'd refused the gift were no longer alive, the difficulty would disappear - the dead have no right to property. So there was a very unfortunate fatal accident. And ever since, that's been the standard way to deal with that kind of situation."

"But there was no suggestion of any such thing."

"How do you know, Boss? If you're planning an accident, you don't warn the victim. But you were lucky: the chief respected your taboo as much as his own, and Jinato thought of another way out."

"The reconciliation ceremony?"

"That's right."

"Then why wasn't it used on the earlier occasions?"

"Well, for one thing, because it didn't exist then."

"But I thought it was traditional. Do you mean to say it was something new?"

"Yes, Boss, Jinato and I planned it between us."

Again Edward was astonished. "You?"

"Why yes. Jinato wanted it to be binding on both you and the chief, so he asked what sort of ritual would fit your customs as well as the Deeka's. The best I could think of - not too far from either side - was the Old Testament communion sacrifice, so we worked it up from that."

"A brilliant inspiration, Joseph; I really must hand it to you. No wonder I kept feeling there was something a bit familiar about the ceremony. But just a moment, there's something missing. To make the reconciliation complete, the girl I'd admired should have taken a main part, too. After all, she had more cause than anyone to be offended. I'm afraid I was too selfishly preoccupied to think of it at the time, but looking back, I don't remember her even being there."

"Boss, that was the whole point of the meal. Didn't you realise? She was the main course."

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##  GRACEFUL GHOST

It was only a four-minute fill-in between two programmes on the radio, but hearing that particular piece of music shook Harry out of an uneasy reverie and swept him back half a century to the late 1920s. He had come down from university a year earlier with an undistinguished degree, been repelled by the idea of school-mastering as the option then common for men in that situation, and in the absence of other offers taken a junior position in the family firm. Unlike many of his student contemporaries, he could not afford to remain idle, but was chary of revealing the fact; he did have his pride. As a rule he therefore made excuses when suggestions for getting together again came his way; however, for long-forgotten reasons that must have seemed good at the time, there was one major exception when he mistakenly accepted an invitation to spend a weekend at the home of a friend with whom he had briefly shared digs.

He could not now remember the occasion for the visit, and only a few years later had lost touch with that friend, who in any case was completely out of his class and had gone on to heights in public service far beyond Harry's decidedly modest hopes or ambitions. He did remember that Francis had taken seriously his obligations as host and done his best to draw Harry into the activities of the party, but it was an uphill task and not always successful. Harry too tried conscientiously but ineptly to fit in, feeling like a fish out of water for much of the time, but gave up the struggle when most of the party retired to play bridge; his ignorance of the game was matched only by a disdain that as a matter of courtesy he tried to conceal. In retrospect, he probably ought to have made a greater effort.

Pleading fatigue he had instead taken a book to the drawing room, hoping for solitude, but found with some annoyance that Philip Something-or-other was already there at the piano. He was a pale young man who reminded Harry of one of the more effete characters in a Noel Coward show, but his talent in that respect was undeniable, and 'Graceful Ghost' was the next piece in his repertoire. Somehow it seemed to Harry not quite right in the context, but it calmed his nerves, so whatever the incongruity might be he dismissed it as unimportant and relaxed to the gentle charm of the music. He even managed to muster a sort of smile when Philip noticed his presence and nodded to him.

After a blustery day a southerly breeze had banished the clouds and then fallen away to nothing, leaving a warm, moonlit evening; the French windows were open to a verandah overlooking the garden, and no doubt the performance could be clearly heard for some distance outside. The grounds were large, as befitted the house, with a formal area in geometric designs leading to a walled rose garden. The main avenue of the layout passed through it by arched gateways into an arboretum and on to a fair-sized lake.

Harry had once been casually introduced to Philip's sister Sarah, who had bowled him over completely. Rather tall and very slim, she was striking rather than beautiful, having fair, slightly aquiline features set off by short black hair and finely-arched eyebrows; the effect was further enhanced that day by her vivid red blouse with a black skirt and neck-band. She was gracious with it, too; in trying to dispel his tongue-tied incoherence she seemed genuinely friendly. Indeed, a few days later when they had chanced to meet again, he imagined a flicker of real interest on her part, but reluctantly dismissed the notion as wishful thinking. Nevertheless she haunted his dreams for months.

He was indeed thinking about her when as if drawn by the music she appeared, this time in a white dress, gently twirling along the verandah. Again Noel Coward came to mind. She seemed completely absorbed in her own thoughts, but just before she passed out of sight Harry thought she glanced in his direction with a slight beckoning gesture. After a brief argument with himself over the likelihood of its reality, and despite an irritating niggle about the banal theatricality of the whole scenario, he settled on the thought that there was nothing to lose and followed.

Sarah was by now well ahead of him, but her dress showed up clearly in the moonlight. Torn between vague hopes and more distinct fears of an all too predictable disappointment, he was in no hurry to catch up. Her path led through the rose garden, where the scent of the blooms was delicious, and on into the arboretum. The way through was plain enough, so it hardly mattered that Sarah was only intermittently in sight, until he emerged by the side of the lake and she seemed to have vanished altogether. He wondered where she could have gone, but then saw the gleam of white a couple of hundred yards away to the right beside a boathouse. However, it seemed curiously static, and he realised on approaching that it was a column set into the ground. The base was inscribed "In memory of Sarah Heseltine, 1906 \- 1927. A dearly loved daughter and sister." He stood horror-struck.

A noisy announcement of the next item on the radio roused him from his reminiscence. He had evidently fallen asleep, as these days he tended to do more and more often, even during broadcasts that had particularly attracted him. It was rather worrying, although he told himself that in retirement it hardly mattered; he seldom paid for it with night-time insomnia. He had never married, maybe he sometimes suspected because he shirked the responsibility, or perhaps it was simply that the right woman had not come his way. Consequently he had only himself to please in the house. His routine chores were undemanding, his work had equipped him with no skills in particular demand, he was unadventurous in his hobbies, and hardly any "voluntary" duties were thrust upon him; he thus had time on his hands, and dozing at least helped it to pass.

For some reason the memory of his dream still nagged at him. At least he eventually identified the source of his unease about the music; 'Graceful Ghost' was written long after his visit. He wondered how much more of his recollection might be equally unreliable. It so happened that the National Trust handbook had arrived that morning and he had noticed the house in question as one of those open to the public; that was no doubt the real trigger for recalling the occasion. On a rare impulse towards positive action, he resolved to take another look at it come the spring. A great deal must have changed over the decades, but much of the place might still remain.

Actually, apart from the basic structure, very little did. He made the usual round of the open rooms, was disappointed at finding hardly any resemblance to his vague memories, but then remembered that as a guest he would of course have been mostly in the domestic quarters which were now marked "Private". About to leave after completing the tour, he happened to find the chief custodian chatting at the reception desk. She was a pleasant, cheerful, middle-aged woman who smiled encouragingly at him and asked how he had enjoyed the visit.

"Quite well, thank you, though it's certainly changed a lot."

"You've been before?"

"A long time ago. A house party in 1928."

"Goodness, that's remarkable. A lot's certainly happened since then."

"The usual story, I suppose - death duties, decline in the family fortunes and so on?"

"That among other things. The house was requisitioned by the military during the war, then occupied by some government body for a few years and afterwards left empty. It was in a shocking state when the Trust took it over. We've done our best to get things back as they were, or at least in keeping with the basic style, but there's an awful lot of guesswork in it."

A sudden thought seemed to strike her. "I wonder ..."

"Yes?"

"Could you remember how it really was? If we tried to make it a bit more authentic ..."

"I doubt if my memories would be much help. But you never know ... There is one thing, though. Am I right in thinking that there was a memorial near the boathouse to a girl who had died very young, or have I just imagined it?"

"Yes, it's there all right. It was dreadfully shabby, but we've cleaned and re-painted it. To be honest, we probably shouldn't have bothered, but our handyman thought that in that state it was an insult to the dead and did it up in his spare time."

"Good for him. I know it's a long shot, but is anything known of what happened to her?"

"Funny you should ask, but then coincidence does seem to strike surprisingly often. Only a few weeks ago, a letter about it turned up when someone was going through her family's records, and we were sent a copy. Very sad, it was. Apparently she was a particular friend of this family, not actually engaged to the son of the house but there was believed to be what they called an understanding, and they held her twenty-first birthday party here. It was a fine night and a few of the youngsters decided to take a boat out on the lake. I don't suppose they were altogether sober. Anyway, something went wrong; no one seems to have been very precise about it afterwards, maybe for legal reasons, but reading between the lines there was probably a bit of horse-play. Whatever it was, it ended up with Sarah being drowned. She's buried in her home parish, of course, but the family here were devastated by the accident and had a little monument put up near the spot."

"As you say, very sad. Would it be possible, do you think, to have a look at it? I actually knew the girl very slightly ..."

"You did? That's extraordinary!"

"Well, only the slightest acquaintance, really. I met her just a couple of times and thought she was wonderful."

"That seems to have been the general opinion. Hmm. We don't normally allow visitors down there, but in such particular circumstances, and of course with your being a member, I think we ought to make an exception. But do take care; that area's been neglected badly and I shouldn't like you to come a cropper. I'd come with you myself only we're expecting a party any minute. Do you think you can find the way if I point you in the right direction?"

With fingers crossed, he assured her that he could.

The walk down to the lake was depressing, and a turn for the worse in the weather added to the gloom, with the air becoming sultry and a suggestion of thunder in the distance. Harry wondered if he should turn back, but thought it would be discourteous in view of the privilege he had been given and so went on. He was disappointed to see that the rose garden had been given over to vegetables, though at least the plots were well tended. Otherwise the custodian had understated the neglect; the wall where the further gate had been seemed on the verge of collapse and the path through the arboretum was overgrown with scrub. The shore-line of the lake was choked with reeds, the paving of the path beside it broken and uneven, the boathouse seriously dilapidated, and the stones of the jetty covered in moss where they had not already fallen into the water. Beside it, the remains of a boat lay half buried in silt. However, Harry was relieved to find the monument very much as he had only half-expected it. He spent a minute or two in sad contemplation. As he straightened up after reading the inscription, a sudden pain took his breath away and he was compelled to rest on a rusty seat nearby. The daylight seemed to fade almost to nothing, then returned more brightly.

A cool breeze had suddenly sprung up and he felt strangely reinvigorated, as though he had indeed gone back to a bracing day in his youth. The sky was cloudless. Sparkling wavelets were gently rocking a smart little boat moored to the jetty. Then he was surprised by a touch of fabric against his cheek, and a hand rested gently on his shoulder. Turning, he saw Sarah standing beside him, just as he remembered her.

"Come along, Harry," she said cheerfully. "It's time to be going. Don't keep me waiting any longer."

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##  THE GIFT

Gaston was good at his job. As an executioner during the Terror, he dispatched aristocrats, clerics and other enemies of the Revolution with the calm efficiency of a butcher preparing meat for the market, the dispassion of a bookkeeper filling the pages of a ledger. If the abject cowardice of a former tyrant might give him a moment of contemptuous satisfaction, or the severed head of a pretty girl a twinge of regret, he showed no sign of either. To all appearances he was merely a smoothly-functioning instrument of the Revolution, doing what had to be done with the least possible fuss.

He never mentioned any family, friends or mistress, living or dead, locally or in some other part of the country. His accent suggested an origin in one of the southern provinces, though none in particular. What had brought him to Paris was equally obscure. He had simply appeared when the need for him arose, spoke of nothing but the work to be done and no more than necessary of that, and at the end of each working day vanished until the next. His most inquisitive colleagues, after some vague thoughts of following him that always gave way to more pressing business, had long since given up trying to find out more about him.

The day when the Comte de Soissons turned up in the tumbrel started no differently from many another. There was a rather chilly breeze, enough to give the prisoners an excuse for shivering, but most appeared to be calmly resigned to their fate; after all, death was inevitable sooner or later, the guillotine at least put a swift end to material anxieties, and if there was anything to follow, they had the clearest possible warning to prepare themselves for it. The few in an open state of funk, and even fewer who tried to disguise their fear with a show of bravado, at most irritated the more stoical. The Comte, however, was an exception to all this; he seemed almost cheerful. For all his seventy-odd years he trotted up the steps as though to a promising assignation, winked at Gaston and drew him slightly aside.

"You seem a reliable sort," he said. "I'd like you to look after this. You might even find it useful." And producing a curiously-designed ring, he passed it over. Gaston was too nonplussed to do more than stare at it for a moment and put it in his pocket. "Right," said the Comte. "Better get on with our business. Adieu - or should I say 'Au revoir'?"

*****

Eric scowled at his word-processor. Where the hell was this story going? He had no idea beyond the vague possibilities suggested by the last sentence, and the evidently crucial significance of the ring. It sat there on his desk, defying him to think up anything remotely interesting to follow what he flattered himself was quite a respectable start; respectable, that is, as far as it went - just three paragraphs, not enough to fill a single page. He picked up the ring and gazed at it as he had done scores of times before.

He had bought it for Miriam many years before, when they were courting, and it had caught her eye as they looked through a collection of bric-a-brac in an antique shop that offered the nearest refuge from a sudden cloudburst. Nothing else had interested them there, the shopkeeper was as gloomy as his stock, and the purchase was little more than a sop to conscience over taking advantage of his shelter and fruitlessly occupying so much of his time. Nevertheless Miriam had become quite attached to it, until after a piece of more than usually crass thoughtlessness on his part she had hurled it at him and walked out. He never saw or heard from her again, and only months after the event had he learned from a friend about her death some years later in a particularly stupid road accident. If only ... But what was the use? Their relationship had been worsening for some time, and Eric knew himself well enough to realise that the break would have come eventually in any case; his own character would be intolerable in the long run to any woman not prepared to be a doormat.

Doormats were boring, and he could find better company in a book than with most of the unattached women he had met. Miriam had been unusual, and the memory of how he had treated her still made him cringe with shame. As the only way to restore a measure of self-esteem he had carefully built up a façade of consideration for others. It must have been at least superficially convincing, to judge by his enduring friendships with many people he respected for their personal qualities, but he knew that it was supported only by a conscious effort of will and unlikely to pass any sustained test. With other acquaintances, an easy affability came naturally and cost nothing. Of course, the usual instincts had lost none of their power, and occasionally drew him into brief, unsatisfactory flirtations: however, they never looked like developing into anything more, and he remained essentially alone.

The ring was a constant reminder of his fundamental selfishness and the need to control it very firmly, much as in former times a skull might be kept in a prominent position as a _memento mori_. Moreover its design had a curious fascination for him, with an elaborate Celtic knot cut into the otherwise plain metal band. A double symbol of eternity there; the ring itself, with no beginning or end, and the knot more flamboyantly making not quite the same point. Over the years he must have wasted hours in idly tracing the pattern through every bewildering twist and reversal before returning inevitably to wherever he had started. What if by some miracle he could get back with greater wisdom to that point in his life where he had wrecked that one promising chance of a congenial marriage? Would he behave any differently? Probably not. The pattern was already fixed.

*****

Gaston's lodgings were in a quiet street near the site of the Bastille. He rented a single room from a cabinet-maker, taking his evening meals with the family, but casually evading all attempts to draw him into deeper social intimacy. Since he seemed thoroughly respectable with regular and unobtrusive habits - eminently desirable qualities in a lodger during those troubled times - no one ever pressed the attempts. His business was his own, and he might have sound reasons for keeping quiet about it, while some things were better not known.

Even so, the two daughters of the family remained intrigued long after the parents had ceased openly speculating. Despite his being at least half a generation older, one of them for a while had romantic notions about him, weaving complicated fantasies of how he might have fallen into his present humble condition and of the noble deeds she might yet call upon him to perform for her, until his gentle discouragement, the chaffing of her brother and finally the arrival of a more tractable prospect next door put a stop to them.

There was one very good reason for saying nothing about his background: he knew nothing himself. His earliest memory was of a few years earlier, being nursed through a bad case of concussion by a kindly slut in Marseille. Before that was a blank, and "Gaston" was simply the name she gave him in memory of a childhood companion. She could tell him only that after a disturbance on the quay-side, a friend in the militia had found him unconscious with a nasty wound on his head. Whether it came from a blow or a fall no one could be sure, but the emptiness of his pockets suggested foul play. Fortunately his rather well-made coat proved to have a useful cache of money sewn into the lining, enough to pay off some worrying arrears of the woman's rent and keep him going until he found work with a nearby cartwright. The mystery of his past eventually gave a disagreeably nosy neighbour an excuse to denounce the woman to the local Committee of Public Safety for supposedly harbouring royalists, and he was lucky to escape arrest, heading for Paris where he hoped to be lost in the crowd. As an odd-job man at the Bicêtre hospital, he helped competently in Dr. Guillotin's experiments and had no objections when he thus became a natural choice to continue operating the machine in earnest.

The episode with the Comte de Soissons continued to puzzle him. Quite apart from the unnatural chirpiness of the fellow, what on earth could he have meant about the ring's possibly being useful? Most evenings Gaston spent some time studying it, or rather letting his mind wander over the possibilities. He wasn't one to go in for the Arabian Nights stuff about rings with occult powers. He knew, of course, that rings were sometimes used to hold a suicide capsule in case of need, but this one was obviously not of that sort. There was no room for any kind of hidden mechanism, and even if there had been there was no sign of a trigger. More plausibly, the unusual design could be the symbol of some secret society; showing it might indeed serve as a discreet signal. But when would such a signal be needed? The only likely occasion would be a plot against the regime, and if that were so, anything linked with it could prove a very dangerous possession. He would be wise to get rid of it. But he feared it might perhaps still be traced to him, and the attempt would be taken as a sign of guilt. Besides, for some reason he was reluctant to disregard the Comte's dying wish for him to take care of it. His thoughts went round in convolutions as twisted as those in the design, never leading to any conclusion.

Then there was that ambiguous farewell. What did the Comte mean by it? It might be no more than suggesting a meeting in the afterlife, if he believed in one. Gaston didn't. A tantalising notion - if there turned out to be one, would unbelievers be included? He supposed they would have to be. There was something deeply objectionable about the idea of being hauled willy-nilly into a future existence that he had always denied. Always? He really had no idea of his views on the subject before the incident that had erased past memories. Now there was a thought; could the significance of the ring be as a clue to his past? Had the Comte in fact recognised him from earlier acquaintance and tried to give him the key to some important fact? The money sewn into his coat, now he belatedly came to think about it, suggested that he had once been prosperous: was it possible that he might himself be one of the aristocracy? No, the coat was good, but practical, not ornate. It might belong to a tradesman, or just possibly a professional of some kind, never a nobleman.

*****

Eric sighed: he appeared to have written himself into a corner again. Often his characters seemed to take on a life of their own, almost independent of his conscious thought, but after that initial burst, prompted by seeing a film on the Pimpernel theme, Gaston was proving thoroughly uncooperative and had to be pushed every inch of the way. Eric mentally cursed the day he had been landed with providing a short story for Janice's magazine. After all, he was an engineer, and writing fiction was only a hobby. A technical manual was a different thing altogether; well before the deadline, with no great mental effort, he would produce a clear, concise text that even the apprentices should be able to understand, if they could be bothered to read at all. Half of them apparently couldn't. Their idea of literature was one of the more lurid tabloids, and their interest in structural mechanics confined to the distribution and elasticity of soft tissue over various examples of the female skeleton, actual or imagined.

That, however, was not the present problem. His immediate difficulty was in devising any sort of credible, coherent and satisfying plot for the story he was committed to write. How had Janice talked him into it? He had told her his ideas had dried up, at least for the time being, and in any case he needed to get on with other tasks, but it didn't seem to make any difference. She was one of those people who simply don't hear what they don't want to know. On this occasion she blithely said, "You'll think of something," and had changed the subject before he could get in a suitable rejoinder. He never managed to work back to the topic and insist that he wasn't going to do it - couldn't do it - positively refused to do it. She departed expecting it to be done, and that was that: he hadn't the guts to defy her.

He suddenly realised with alarm that this seemed to have become a pattern. Over the past year or so she had started asking him to do little tasks for her, then some not so little, and in time, for various allegedly good causes, some that were definitely more than he was willing to do, although he found his protests and excuses firmly overridden. Why did he allow it? Feminine wiles? He had to admit that she never descended to that kind of approach. Somehow he couldn't imagine it of her. Not that she lacked the means had she wished to use them; she was no beauty, but definitely personable, with pleasing features and a good figure that she neither emphasised nor disguised by her style of dress.

She had been widowed young and childless, and found some consolation by involving herself heavily in the activities of the church she attended. From time to time friends had tried match-making, without success: interests were usually compatible, but principles and desires were not. Eric had got to know her (not in the Biblical sense, more the pity) when he needed her help as head of the typing pool with a particularly important manual that he was preparing, since it was to have a layout according to the customer's specification, very different from the company standard. She had gone well beyond the strict call of duty in not only meeting his requirements but making various useful suggestions, such as pointing out several instances where an extra diagram would greatly clarify the text.

The custom when typists had been especially helpful was to present a box of chocolates. However, Eric felt that in the circumstances something more was needed, so he asked her out to dinner, which proved a mutually pleasurable occasion. He couldn't resist hinting gently at further possibilities, and although she declined them, it was in a way as sympathetic as it was definite. Neither ever referred to the subject again on subsequent dates, which without becoming routine calendar entries tended to happen every few weeks.

Eric was diffident about mentioning his literary hobby, fearing that it smacked of dilettantism, but it slipped out and Janice was immediately interested in seeing some of his work. She was impressed, assuring him that he had a genuine gift for writing, and looking back he supposed that it must be true; after all, those first three paragraphs had practically written themselves. When last week the editor of her church magazine mentioned wanting an original short story for some purpose, he was the obvious person to ask. Besides any other difficulties, he couldn't possibly write on a religious theme, but apparently that didn't matter. So here he was, stuck with it. And stuck, at least for the present, was indeed the word.

*****

Gaston had few heroes. Since his recovery he had come across no one who deserved the title. If he were inclined to put anyone of his acquaintance on a pedestal, it might be the militiaman who, no doubt at considerable risk, had saved his life, or perhaps the woman who despite her poverty had tended it. Outside his circle there was just one: Maximilien Robespierre, who of all the revolutionaries was noted for his altruism. Gaston occasionally dreamed of some day meeting the great man, or at least being in his presence. The actual meeting when it came, with Robespierre under the guillotine, was the greatest shock of his life, and for several days afterwards he was practically an automaton.

Marie, the more practical of his host's daughters, noticed that he was even more taciturn than usual and sensed that something was wrong. She was a good-natured girl with a capacity for sympathy unspoiled by the horrors of the time, and one evening after the meal, before he retired to his room, she risked a rebuff by asking tentatively if he were unwell. For once a moment of genuine human contact was welcome, and he confided that no, it wasn't a physical illness, but he was worried. It was not a matter he could discuss, though he appreciated her concern. The fact was that he was not sleeping well. Had he tried counting sheep? Yes, but it hadn't worked; he could hardly tell her that the image of animals leaping a gate always changed to heads falling into a basket, his own among them.

Another suggestion was simply to think of nothing. Difficult; to concentrate on not thinking about anything was in fact to think about it. Marie, however, had once got through her distress at a friend's death by repeating over and over again a fidgety task - sewing handkerchiefs or something of the sort - that occupied her mind just enough to keep other thoughts out, and that seemed worth a trial. The question was, what kind of task? It need not be constructive. All he could think of was tracing the pattern on his ring. Obviously he would have to stay awake to do it, but it might calm his mind. Rather to his surprise, it did. Could that perhaps have been what the Comte meant by finding the ring useful? Possibly; the old codger must have had many causes for anxiety over the last few years.

*****

Picking up the ring yet again, Eric fiddled with it, only half-consciously tracing the pattern with a pencil tip. Round and round it went, always inevitably coming back to the same point before starting another circuit. It reminded him of the Buddhist concept of repeated death and reincarnation. But that was never supposed to be the same life over and over again, rather a different life according to what the previous existence had earned, and there was always at least hope for eventual escape into nirvana.

Good lord, what could he be thinking about? The pencil was trapped in an unending circuit only so long as it stayed in the two-dimensional pattern; real existence was in three dimensions. He had only to lift it out and it would be free.

He would be free ... That settled it. He had better things to do than to keep banging his head against the sheer lack of inspiration. He would simply tell Janice that he couldn't produce her story.

She took it badly. "You promised!"

"No, I didn't. You only assumed that I'd do it."

"You didn't say you wouldn't."

"You didn't give me a chance."

"You might at least have had a go at it."

"I've tried my best. It didn't work."

"You could try again."

"I've done my damnedest. I can't do it, and that's that."

"Then how am I going to face Tim after I've told him how reliable you are?" And so on and on, in utter futility. That evening's dinner date was obviously off. He didn't suppose there would be another.

When she had gone and he had calmed down a little, he realised that he had had a perilously narrow escape. So, of course, had she. And maybe, so had Gaston.

*****

When the political situation had eased, a nephew of the Comte de Soissons, known to be populist and in good standing with the government, made enquiries about the ring and eventually tracked it down to Gaston. Evidently it was a much-cherished family heirloom, although not intrinsically valuable, and relief at finding it safe made him talkative. He had been fond of the old man, who had lived kindly with a clear conscience and never feared death, only the possibly painful and protracted ways it might come, so he would have been grateful for a quick end. The nephew too was grateful, and not stingy in his thanks.

With the money Marie and Gaston bought a small property near Saint Cloud. Carefully tended, it supported them with a little surplus for extras and to put by. In time, with additions as the opportunity offered, it also supported their children, and later on their children's children. As Voltaire had said, in dangerous times, the thing to do is to cultivate one's garden.

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##  SUNSET

The dream comes seldom now, although it was once frequent, and there is some variation, but always the valley; broad, running roughly east-west, under autumn sunshine, with cattle grazing calmly in neatly-hedged fields, a curl of smoke from some of the farmhouse chimneys, and a scent of wood fires in the air. On the northern slope is an inn, to which I have come after a long and tiring journey. It is an old, rambling house, formed in a past century by linking separate buildings with passages and stairs; not a place of special beauty or interest, but comfortable and welcoming.

This is nothing like the recurrent nightmares that used to haunt me. I found many years ago how to disarm and banish those by equipping myself mentally, in an interlude of semi-wakefulness, with whatever might serve to defeat the imagined peril - a parachute, for instance, with which to descend from the shaking bridge or the crumbling tower. Nevertheless, peaceful though the valley setting is, there is still a vague sense of danger, or at least of unease; I must not stay for long at the inn as something is approaching that I do not wish to meet. I cannot leave by the front without the likelihood of running into it, and the only possible alternative is through a small door where the back of the building is cut into the hillside. Beyond the door is an unlit tunnel leading steeply upwards, and no one can tell me where it goes. Without that knowledge, or at least an inkling of it, I am reluctant to go on unless the need becomes more pressing; and there the dream ends.

I cannot tell exactly where the valley is. The setting suggests my uncle's home looking across the Cumbrian Derwent to Lorton Vale, but I am aware that the one in my dream is far away to the south, possibly in the Cotswolds, certainly in the southern part of the country. Whether the valley exists in reality I do not know, nor do I consciously recall ever being in such a place; it may be so, or it could be a composite of various memories, or perhaps as in other dreams a place that once I knew transfigured by pure imagination.

The journey to it has started in the north, along the main thoroughfare of a large town, none that I can identify in reality. Something interesting can be glimpsed away to the left through side streets leading to a dockland district that I have visited in the past, now an area of decay and ruin where I have no business to return. My road goes forward. Somehow, many miles on and in a quite different direction, it reaches a region of industrial dereliction, littered with abandoned buildings, rusty rail tracks and broken vehicles. Beyond, a broad, hard-surfaced road heads away straight towards the south-east, but it repels me; I have no intention of returning to the midland town of my birth, and now what remains of the family is scattered, there is no cause in either duty or inclination. Instead my way is along a smaller, gentler, winding road to the south, for some unknown reason turning aside to follow the coast of North Wales as far as Conwy or thereabouts and thence veering south again across the mountains until I come weary to the valley of the inn.

There have been other journeys. One starts from a different city and again heads south, past tall, eroded pillars of sandstone to a cliff face that it crosses steeply aslant, with an arched viaduct over a gully. I could avoid the climb by taking a more inviting side path leading from the start of the bridge down through sunlit open woodland to the foot of the cliff, although I know that if I follow this path there will be no getting back to the main road. But that is in a different dream, a different land, a different myth.

Curious things, dreams. They must surely reflect something going on in the mind, but the mirror is so cracked, clouded and distorted that the original can scarcely be discerned. Long before I ever visited the north coast of Scotland I dreamed of travelling there, by a route and over terrain quite unlike reality, and even now the dream recurs from time to time. In fact the dream road is clearer in my mind than the one actually taken. The first stage ends at a walled city on the border, where I may be detained, as usual with no idea why; the diversion seems somehow connected with a village through which I passed regularly during a period of my youth, but what the connection may be I cannot tell.

Past the city, the road goes straight northwards, following a ridge of utterly desolate heathland bearing no resemblance to either southern uplands or central highlands, more like parts of the Pennines. Towards the end is a crossroads where again I may be deflected either way. To the east is a small, attractive fishing village; more often I go, through choice or necessity, to the left towards a cove that indeed feels sinister although for no apparent reason. It may perhaps recall a far from welcoming inn found on the west coast of Ireland, where something nefarious was evidently afoot, possibly a smuggling operation.

Sometimes the origin of a dream image is obvious. Futile attempts at shaping a mass of iron as apprentice to a blacksmith (nothing to do with Great Expectations!) clearly derive from watching a cutler making heavy weather of forging a knife at a "mediaeval" fair in Avignon, while the warren of alleys and run-down dwellings through which I have found a way to the smithy could have been an idea of that city's back streets in an earlier and less salubrious age. Other possibilities are Old Jerusalem or a place in north Africa such as Algiers or Fez.

These are fairly straightforward connections, echoing real experience, even if ambiguous and pressed into service only as linking concepts. Other dreams, memorable decades later for their sheer oddity, have impenetrably obscure origins. Nothing I can bring to mind from the past accounts for imagining myself stranded at a bus station in Tashkent, a part of the world that I had never then studied or visited, with a newly-met Irishman I do not entirely trust offering to show me round the town; or still more fantastically acting as driver for a band of terrorists commanded by a pair of budgerigars (why two?).

In contrast, the symbolism of the valley dream ought to have been perfectly transparent, although recognition has come quite recently and as a complete surprise. I know at last what the valley is - not where but when - and that since the last occurrence of the dream it has become my present habitation. The dark tunnel is still mysterious, but no longer troubles me; evening is advancing, the pursuit drawing closer, and sooner or later I must leave the comfort of the inn to pass through that small door. I am ready, and feel that the time is not far off.

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##  EPILOGUE

Henri Antoine Philippe Alexandre Dominic Eustache Louis Amalric de Saint-Hilaire, Comte de Soissons (Henri to his friends), sat contentedly gazing across the strait at the fortified islet a kilometre or so off the coast. He loved this time of evening with the western sky fading to blue-green, and the few clouds outlined in a blaze of golden light. It fell almost horizontally on the castle, picking out its structural details in sharp relief. Despite deploring the voracity of the Venetians in plundering the eastern Mediterranean, he greatly admired their remarkable talent for combining military efficiency in their fortresses with architectural aesthetic. This was one of his favourite spots.

His companion stirred slightly. "When did you say he was coming?"

"Patience, Gaston. We aren't privileged to see into the future. We only know that barring a miracle, as a sceptic like you undoubtedly would, it can't be very long."

"It doesn't seem right, just lazing around like this."

Henri was amused. "Still not used to lotus-eating, Gaston?"

"I doubt if I ever shall be."

"Just remember, there's no need to hurry over anything. We've all the time in the world - if that's the right phrase."

That clearly left Gaston some minutes to consider what was really worrying him. "I suppose it's because I don't like leaving Marie for so long. It's been a bit of a shock to her, first coming here, and then finding she was to meet -"

"He isn't so very frightening, is he?"

"Not to us. Marie didn't have so much to do with him."

"You had a lot more than any of us. Couldn't you reassure her?"

"Somehow, words don't seem to help."

Henri nodded. "Men's words don't. You needn't worry, though. Elizabeth is quite capable of looking after her. If I know anything, they'll be completely lost in an orgy of women's talk. You're well out of it."

It was a point well made. Gaston stretched and laughed. "You're probably right. She always did enjoy a good chin-wag. I must say, it is pleasant not to have to rush over everything. The farm didn't leave much time for simply enjoying life."

"I doubt if you'd have preferred idleness."

"Probably not. But a little more leisure wouldn't have come amiss. Oh, I'm not complaining. Compared with some, we were extraordinarily lucky. Things could very easily have been a lot harder. The farm gave us a pretty reliable livelihood. And we were certainly lucky to get it. We'd never have been able to buy the place without Louis's gift."

"Not a gift, Gaston. A reward for services rendered. That ring had been in the family since Guy de Lusignan, and goodness knows how many generations before. He'd have hated to lose it. That was why I left it in your care."

"A bit of a risk, wasn't it?"

"Not half as much as any alternative. As I said, you looked a reliable type."

"How could you tell that in just a glance? I still don't know what made you say it. Though if you hadn't, I'd probably have sold the thing straight away."

"Exactly. Showing people you trust them often pays off."

Gaston pondered for a moment. "There's another thing. I was staggered when Louis traced me - scared, too. I never mentioned where I was lodging, and I was pretty sure no one ever followed me there."

"A good thing, too. Lopping so many aristocratic heads, and then Robespierre's and a score of his pals', might have made you rather less than popular in several quarters."

"Yes, that's right. But do you know how Louis managed it? I didn't think to ask him then - too relieved that he wasn't after revenge - and the time has never seemed right since."

"Pure coincidence, I believe. He ordered a desk from your father-in-law, and asked for the same design to be worked on the front. I imagine the idea was not to lose it altogether. Young Antoinette happened to be there at the time and recognised it."

"Trust her to be sticking her nose in! But very fortunate all round."

Henri chuckled. "Old Jacques was pretty fortunate in more ways than one. Having called his daughters Marie and Antoinette might have given ill-disposed people some very nasty ideas in the 1790s. Plenty of people were guillotined for less."

"That's what he thought, too, but it was a bit late to do anything about it by then, beyond using nicknames their playmates had given them."

"I shan't ask what they were. Children's nicknames tend to be unflattering. But the sun's setting. Shall we go inside? I fancy a game of chess."

They had often played since Gaston's arrival, or rather, Henri had been teaching him the game. For all either of them knew, Gaston might quite possibly have been adept in his youth, but all his earlier memories had been blacked out by a blow on the head. However it might have been, he picked up the rules and conventions quickly and by now could pose a fairly satisfying challenge. They were both deeply engrossed when Miriam came in, and she watched the progress of play for a few minutes before Henri noticed.

"Oh, I'm sorry, my dear, you should have said something."

"Not likely! I know how you hate having your concentration suddenly disturbed. No sign of him yet, I gather?"

"No, he must be hovering longer than we expected. Can I get you anything while we wait?"

"No, thanks. I'll just watch your game, if you don't mind."

"I don't in the least, but Gaston isn't used to spectators. It could be unnerving. We'll adjourn for the time being, if you don't mind. Want to make a note of your next move, Gaston?"

"No, thanks. There aren't many possibilities left anyway. It'll give me an excuse for losing again."

The evening was turning chill, and Henri lit a fire. They settled themselves comfortably around it, and shortly afterwards Marie and Elizabeth joined them, Marie rather shyly taking a place on the sofa next to Gaston. "Takes a bit of getting used to, doesn't it, old girl?" he said, sneaking an arm round her.

"I'm all right now. But a bit sleepy."

Henri assured her that no one would be at all offended if she nodded off. "We're all friends here. Make yourself easy. It looks as though there's been a delay; we may have a longer wait than I thought."

The twilight had faded, and the room was filled with a warm glow. "Nothing like an open fire to cheer the place up," said Miriam.

Henri commented that there hadn't been much choice in his day, and he never did take kindly to new-fangled ideas. But perhaps he should light a lamp or two? No one wanted it. Then a more serious thought struck him. "Coming here and meeting us will be sure to seem very strange to him, and the first recognition may well be really alarming. Didn't you find it so, Marie?"

"Well, it wasn't quite what I expected."

"So you did expect something, then? Gaston didn't."

Marie laughed. "Oh, he was always a hardened old cynic. What was it you used to say? 'Expect nothing, and you won't be disappointed,' wasn't it?"

"Something like that. But what were you going to say, Henri?"

Henri explained that since their guest might well have difficulty in accepting a situation that in any case he would find scarcely credible, seeing Miriam among them in the first instance might well make explanation even harder. It would be better to get over one possible problem at a time. On the other hand, having her walk in on the gathering would be altogether too dramatic. Would she mind staying in the shadows until the first hurdle was negotiated, and then present herself as seemed best at the time? Miriam didn't mind at all; anything to make things easier. And so they waited, quietly chatting of nothing in particular, until there was a knock on the door, Henri called "Entrez!" and Eric appeared.

Henri bustled around the introductions. "Delighted you've come, Eric. You know Gaston and Marie, of course. And myself. But you've never met my wife. Elizabeth dear, this is Eric, our author."

Eric was nonplussed. "I'm sorry. I ... Forgive me if this seems stupid, but I don't remember meeting any of you before."

Henri laughed. "Silly of me. I was forgetting. You never saw us in the flesh, as it were, did you? At most a verbal description, and not very much of that. But I'm afraid you've only yourself to blame there; it was you who called us into being, and all we have is what you wrote."

"What? I don't understand."

"I didn't expect you to, straight away. It's a possibility I don't suppose you've ever even considered. Your friends would probably think you mad if you did, at least if you took it seriously. But in fact we're from a story you wrote. Remember 'The Gift'? You used to say your characters sometimes seemed to take on a life of their own. That's exactly what did happen."

Eric evidently was not taking in the idea, so Henri sat him down comfortably and poured wine for all before starting the introductions afresh. "Just make yourself at home, Eric. In case you've forgotten, Gaston was the revolutionary executioner and Marie his wife. I'm Henri, Comte de Soissons, one of those who got the chop, if you'll excuse that inelegant but convenient expression. And as you've only newly arrived I shan't take you to task just yet for neglecting to provide me with a wife. I had to rustle up Elizabeth myself. But I don't think I did too badly there without your help. Louis, my nephew, hasn't shown up yet, but then he was always a bit vague. Oh, I nearly forgot: Hortense, Gaston's friend in Marseille, couldn't be here this evening but asked us to give you her very warm regards."

"What happened to her?"

"Well, if you don't know, how could anyone else?"

Eric sat down with his wine, shaking his head in bewilderment. He took a sip - "Is it to your taste, Eric? There's quite a selection if you'd prefer something else."

"It's very good, thank you, your - er ... I'm sorry, what is the correct form of address?"

"Oh, never mind about that. Just call me Henri. Everyone else does. We're quite informal."

The wine was indeed good, and Eric thought it best to take his time over it while trying to digest what he had been told. One question occurred to him immediately; what about the characters in his other stories? Where were they? Henri hadn't thought of that, but explained that they knew only their own tale. If there were others, they didn't overlap, although occasionally they wondered about the possibility, when for instance a book fell off a shelf for no apparent reason, or there was an indefinable feeling of some invisible presence in the room.

There was a pause, and partly to avoid an awkward silence, but mostly from real curiosity, Gaston had a question for him. He had mulled it over for some time, wondering whether it was proper to ask, but eventually decided he might as well. "Eric, pardon my asking, but there's something I've been wondering about for years."

"Yes?"

"What was I before my loss of memory?"

"I've no idea. I never gave it much thought. And I don't suppose I could do it retrospectively, as it were."

Elizabeth couldn't see that there was any rule against it, and not being directly beholden to Eric like the others, allowed herself the indulgence of half-seriously rebuking his previous laziness in leaving Gaston with only half a life. "Well then, let's see. Hmm. You were born into a merchant family in Toulouse in 1758, the second of two sons, but they all moved to Grasse in '65 and took an interest in the perfume trade. You grew up into a bit of a rake, but in time you settled down and joined the firm. You had taken samples to dealers in Avignon and Marseille and meant to return by sea when you were set upon by footpads in the docks. Hortense's militiaman friend disturbed them before they could find your hidden cash reserve, and the rest you know. How about that?"

Gaston laughed. "That'll do fine for the time being, thank you. I may come back for more detail later."

Eric's glass was empty, and he declined a refill. "Actually, I'm feeling rather tired."

Henri was apologetic. "Of course, how thoughtless of me. You've had a long and difficult journey. Cancer, wasn't it? A very exhausting way to die. I really can't thank you enough for providing me with such a painless exit in the story. Couldn't have asked for better. But now you must rest. Miriam will show you to your room."

"Miriam? You mean she's here?"

"Of course. She's been waiting for you. For quite a long time."

The possibility of meeting her was something that had not occurred to Eric, and he was silent as Miriam quietly took his arm and guided him to the room they were to share. Then he tried to tell her how he had cursed himself for treating her so badly, but she calmly hushed him. "No need for that. We understand here. Everything's forgiven."

"But I'm such a selfish bastard."

"No you aren't."

"Underneath, I am. The real me, I mean, not the pretence I've put up over so many years."

"Look, everyone has selfish instincts. They don't matter. Which is the real you? The selfish bastard, or the kind, considerate man you turned yourself into?"

"The selfish bastard, I'd have thought."

"Oh. Well, look at it this way: which is the real Chippendale table, the finished product, or the raw timber he started with?"

"Hmm. But what if it's only veneer, not solid wood?"

"Then for all practical purposes, it's at least as useful."

True or not, it was some comfort. He might as well try to live up to it - if "live" was the right word. "Marie seemed very quiet. Is there a problem there?"

"Not that I know. She only arrived today, rather shaken. A nasty death, I gather, but Elizabeth's been looking after her."

"Quite a coincidence, she and I both dying the same day."

"Not really. They were linked in some way. She couldn't outlive you. Although the times here and on Earth don't always directly correspond - I don't understand how it works in any particular instance."

Eric remembered having written that Gaston didn't believe in an afterlife and would think it an unwarrantable imposition to have one thrust upon him. How had he taken it? "Rather startled at first, but he soon settled down. Henri really helped there. They get on like a house on fire."

"A strange friendship, that."

"Not altogether. Henri's no snob. He says he used to have more sensible talks with his coachman than with most of his own class."

"No, I meant in Gaston's having executed him."

"Oh, that didn't bother him. He told you he was glad of a quick death, and as far as I can see he really meant it. In any case, Gaston was only doing his job. It wasn't his decision."

That reminded Eric of the men who did make such decisions. It suddenly struck him that although Robespierre had been mentioned in his story, there had been no sign of him that evening. Was he another temporary absentee? "Robespierre? Oh no, he won't be coming. He couldn't."

"Why not? And how can you be so sure?"

"Because he was a real person - a matter of history. Whatever happened to him is nothing to do with you. He'll be in heaven or hell, and as you used to say, you can't be in two places at once."

Eric thought over this for a while, and was still puzzled. "Where are we, then?"

"I don't know what you'd call it; some sort of shadow land, I suppose. Hades, or Sheol. This particular bit of it seems to be based on Henri's picture of Nauplion in the Peloponnese. His family had a villa there, before it fell to the Ottomans."

"What I really meant was why aren't we in heaven or hell, too?"

Miriam snuggled up to him. "Haven't you cottoned on yet?"

"To what?"

"Henri more or less told you, Elizabeth is an invention of his own. He and the others are ghosts of characters in one of your stories. So ... "

"So what?"

"Oh dear. You never used to be so dense. Don't you see? We're the ghosts of people in a story someone else has written."

"Good lord! That surely can't be true."

"Why not?"

"Well - for a start, Henri and his friends are well aware of being characters in fiction. I'm not."

"They probably weren't before they died."

"But we're dead, too."

"You didn't think of it. Henri made a point of finding out."

Eric was silent for a while, considering the situation, until another thought struck him. "Er - supposing all this is so, that Elizabeth is Henri's creation, and he and the rest are mine, and we're someone else's ..."

"Yes?"

"How far does this chain go back?"

"Who knows? So far our author hasn't turned up here, so he may be real. Or maybe not. We just can't tell yet. Perhaps we never shall. Now for goodness' sake, shut up and let's get to sleep."

###

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## About the author.

Peter Wilson is a retired industrial chemist living in Seascale, on the Cumbrian coast near the north-west corner of England.

A short biography and more of his writing (plays, film scripts and some non-fiction) may be found with contact details at his web site

http://www.peterwilson-seascale.me.uk

