“I, it really would be most, most obliging of you if you would give us some help here, Ian.”
Peterson felt suddenly hot and weak. He had to cut through all this, get free. He had reacted automatically to the idea of anyone using his bedroom for some stupid rutting, but now he saw that was pointless. He had just now kissed the place goodbye, after all. “Yes, I see, go right ahead. I don’t mind.” He was able to say it almost cheerfully.
The couple thanked him and moved up the staircase with what seemed to Peterson deliberate slowness. He glanced at the drawing room and took several deep, clearing breaths. He could get the bags and be gone without arousing comment, if only—
Sarah. She had seen him as she passed by a knot of chattering people. She tugged at a man, nodded towards Peterson. They crossed the squares of the foyer, like chess pieces advancing. Knight errant and queen to the attack, he thought. He noted remotely that she was wearing one of her own sleek dresses, a jungle-print creation with a matching silk scarf tied round her head and hanging artfully to the left. He looked at the man with her and felt a cold shock. It was Prince Andrew. Jesus, she couldn’t be starting that up again, could she? Well, it would hardly matter now.
“Ian! You’re out already? Squisito!” Sarah exclaimed, taking his hand.
“Just getting some things. They’re transferring me to a place in the country.” He extended a hand to Andrew. “Good evening, sir.”
“For heaven’s sake, Ian, you don’t have to call me sir here.”
“Andy’s, getting us invites to the Coronation Ball—the small one. Isn’t that lovely of him?”
“Yes, very. How is your brother faring, Andrew?”
“Oh, I haven’t seen him for a week myself. He’s always busy now. Glad I don’t have that job. He’s better suited to it than the rest of us, anyway.”
“Oh, I’m sure you could do magnificently,” Sarah murmured.
Andrew shook his head in a wobbly way. “No, I doubt it. I’ve often wondered whether it was just luck that the heir turned out that way or whether he turned out that way precisely because he was the heir.”
Peterson suppressed a fidgeting motion with his hands and tried to think of something to say. Was this conversation unreal or was it just him? “He takes his work very seriously,” he said blandly. “The times I’ve consulted with him, he’s gone right to the point.”
“Got a sense of humor, though, you know,” Andrew replied, as though apologizing for his brother’s seriousness. He blinked owlishly.
Peterson realized that Andrew was drunk, in precisely the degree that royalty can get drunk without arousing comment. That was to say, quite a bit. Sarah tugged at Peterson’s sleeve, beckoning him into the party. He considered for an instant and then followed. He wanted no one to notice the size or weight of the cases he carried as he left. Best to get Sarah and Andrew back into the mob and slip away later. He allowed Sarah to parade him around, introducing him to a few new people he could spot as being potentially useful to her. He smiled, nodded, said little. Gradually it dawned on him that everyone there was addled in some way—drunk, high on drugs, or simply hysterical with frenetic energy. And they were all talking the most superficial rubbish, as well. He had expected a barrage of questions on the bloom or the clouds, but absolutely no one asked. He found himself watching them from a distance. As elegant and ignorant as swans. Yet he knew some of them must have doubts. Again, the sensation of unreality.
It took well over an hour before he saw his chance. He wanted to be damned sure Andrew didn’t see the bags, so he waited until Sarah was clinging to Andrew’s arm and had just set into one of her stock outrageous stories. Then Peterson slipped through several babbling groups, seeming to be among them but in fact listening to nothing, watching only to see if anyone important saw his exit. At the right moment he moved quickly into the foyer. Out came the bags. As he turned, his own bedroom door opened and a bleary, reddened face appeared. Before the woman could hail him he wrenched open the outer door and fled. Not the smooth departure he had envisioned, but good enough. Ahead lay Cambridge and then, by God, he could rest.
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
MARJORIE SAT IN THE MARKHAMS’ SMALL RENTED house and watched Jan. She had come expecting to play the gentle, efficient helper to a distraught and grieving friend, but found their roles almost reversed. Jan was packing systematically. Marjorie had offered to do it for her. She felt that Jan should properly have the freedom to sprawl face down on her bed, face into her pillow, if she felt like it. Jan had refused her help, saying she wouldn’t be able to find things if she didn’t pack them herself. Marjorie had offered to make her some tea. Strong sweet tea soothed anyone. But Jan hadn’t wanted that either. She went on working. Marjorie, slightly offended, thought she might even start humming a tune as she worked. Marjorie wished Jan would offer a drink. Abruptly she clamped down on that thought. God, it was still only the morning.
“Isn’t there anything I can do?” she asked with a thin tone of desperation.
Jan stopped and pushed a strand of hair back from her eyes.
“Well, come to think of it, you could pack up Greg’s clothes. Why don’t you take this big box and go upstairs? Just his clothes and shoes. I’m going to try to sell them to the secondhand shop on Petty Cury. Oh, and check the hall closet. I think his raincoat is in there. And his robe is on the back of the bathroom door.” She gave a sideways smile. “You may as well check all the rooms. I never broke him of the habit of dropping his things wherever he happened to be.”
Marjorie stared at her, disbelieving. She herself had carefully avoided mentioning Greg’s name.
“How can you be so calm?” she burst out.
Jan considered. “I think it’s because there’s so much to do. I haven’t had time to break down. Don’t worry, Marjorie, it will hit me sooner or later. I suppose I haven’t really taken it in yet.”
Marjorie noticed that Jan packed her clothing in a strict ritual. Skirts first, folded carefully lengthwise and then at the hip. Hose in neat little balls. Jan concentrated on her task with absolute energy. She laid out blouses with precisely defined movements, the sleeves in stiff parallels. She fastened the buttons at the collars and down the front, fingers working rhythmically. The arms folded over. She deftly set the creases, smoothed wrinkles. The soft cloth made neat rectangles, each a package. Jan lined them up in a suitcase, tucking in corners. The lid closed snug and tight.
“Would you like to stay with us until you can get a flight? I don’t feel you should be alone here.”
“I’ll be all right. I’m going to London to line up for a flight. There’s evidence that Greg’s flight picked up some virulent form of the cloud stuff—they think that’s what happened to the pilot. No telling, of course. But it means the airlines are scheduling very little until the Council lifts that limitation on flights. They’ve canceled everything that might cross the really thick clouds.” Jan shrugged.
“You’re sure you should go home? To California?”
“Might as well.” A wan fatigue crept into Jan’s face. “I’m no use here.”
“I still think you should stay with us a bit. The children are home—the schools closed, you know—and we could have picnics and—”
“No, I’m sorry, no. Thanks, though.” Jan picked up the box. She stared into it for a moment. “I hope I make it.”
• • •
Renfrew paced the lab floor, smacking one fist into the other palm. His assistant Jason leaned against a gray cabinet, staring moodily at the floor.
“Where’s George?” Renfrew asked suddenly.
“Home, sick.”
“Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter. There’s nothing we can do anyway. Damn power failures. And I still haven’t been able to reach Peterson. His secretary says he’s ill. What a time to choose to be ill!”
He paced some more. The roughing pumps stood silent around him. The lab was gloomy, lit only by a skylight. Late afternoon sunlight slanted in.
“God, Markham
would have been back here tomorrow and we’d have had the Brookhaven backing. Who’s going to speak for us now?”
“Mr. Peterson said he was prepared to help, the last time he was here.”
“I don’t trust the fellow. But if I could at least get in touch with him, God damn it!”
He went over to the water fountain and pressed the button. Nothing happened. He kicked it.
“I never thought I’d live to see water rationing in England,” he said, “and it’s raining cats and dogs, too. ‘Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink.’ I remember learning that one at school. ‘And slimy things did crawl with legs upon the slimy sea,’ yes.” He snorted. “It’ll be the red cliffs of Dover soon.”
“Why don’t you go home?” Jason suggested. “I’ll stick here in case there’s a call from London.”
“Home?” Renfrew said vaguely. Once, Marjorie had been the first person to turn to in times of stress. Her capable motherly presence and simple optimism had always reassured him. But now she was edgy and nervous all the time. He suspected she was drinking too much. He had mentioned as much to her once, but she had flown off the handle, so he hadn’t brought it up again. Her innate good sense would pull her through, he was sure. And the kids. He hadn’t even seen them, except briefly, for a month. They got up late, since there was no school, so he didn’t even see them at breakfast. Yes, perhaps he should go home. Try to make contact with his family again.
Leaving the lab, he found that someone had cut through the chain and stolen his bicycle.
• • •
It was evening and dark by the time he got home. He stood wearily on the porch and shook the rain off his coat. His key turned in the lock but the door was chained on the inside. He rattled it, but no one came. He pressed the bell, realizing as he did so that there were no lights on in the house so the bell wouldn’t work either. Turning up his coat collar, he left the shelter of the porch and squished round to the back. The kitchen door was locked, too. Peering through the window, he saw Marjorie sitting at the table in flickering candlelight. He rapped on the window pane. She looked up, screamed. The candle went out and there was a crash.
“Marjorie!” he shouted. “Marjorie! It’s me, John.”
A thumping. The chain rattled. She opened the back door.
“Don’t do that,” she complained. “My God, you almost gave me a heart attack. Now I can’t find the damn candle. It fell on the floor somewhere.” She locked the door behind him. “I’ll get another one.”
In the dark he heard her fumbling round, banging cupboard doors. His feet crunched on what sounded like broken glass on the floor. He smelled whisky. She never used to drink whisky. A match burst orange; wan candlelight sent their shadows leaping up the kitchen walls.
“Why in heaven’s name don’t you use more than one candle?” he asked.
“Because you can be sure that will be the next thing the country will run out of.”
“Where are the kids?”
“Good heavens, John, they’re at my brother’s. I told you that. They were just trailing around here twiddling their thumbs so I thought they’d have more fun with their cousins. They can help with the harvest. If the rain doesn’t completely wipe it out.”
She bent to pick up the pieces of broken glass from the floor.
He started to ask if there was anything for dinner, then tactfully reworded it. “Have you eaten yet?”
“No.” She gave a little giggle. “I drank my dinner instead. It saves trouble.”
The giggle reminded him of the old bouncy Marjorie. With a strange surge of feeling he reached out and took her hands.
“Damn!” He jerked back, sucking his thumb where a splinter of glass had cut him.
“You silly bugger,” she said unsympathetically. “You could see what I was doing.” She threw the pieces of glass into the trash and wiped the floor with a sponge.
“You never used to drink whisky,” he said, watching her.
“It’s quicker. I know what you’re thinking. You’re afraid I’m becoming an alcoholic. But I know when to stop. I just drink enough to take the edge off things.”
“How about some food then?”
“Help yourself,” she shrugged. “You could open a tin of beans and heat it on The gas ring. Or there’s some cheese in the larder.”
“You know, it’s not a whole lot of fun to come home on a rainy night to a cold dark house, and not even any dinner.”
“I don’t see how you can blame me because it’s cold and dark. What am I supposed to do, burn the furniture? And it’s the first time you’ve come home this early in God knows how long and since you didn’t let me know, you could hardly expect to find dinner ready. John, you have no idea how awful it is to shop for food these days. You have to queue up for hours—literally—and then there’s practically nothing to be had anyway.”
“I don’t know, Marjorie. You always used to be so resourceful. We ought to be better oft than most people. We could kill a chicken, and then there’s your vegetable garden.”
“God, John, sometimes I feel as if you’d been away for months. The chickens were stolen weeks ago. All of them. And I know I told you. As for the vegetables, am I supposed to go slopping around there in the rain looking for a leftover potato or two? It’s the end of September. The garden’s a swamp now anyway.”
The lights came back on suddenly. The refrigerator whirred. They blinked, two people confronted with each other without the shadowy softenings. A silence fell. John fidgeted.
“Heather’s mother died,” she said abruptly. “Well, it’s a happy release. Not like Greg Markham. God, that was a shock. It’s hard to believe he’s dead. He seemed so—well, so alive. And Heather and James lost their jobs, you know.”
“Don’t tell me any more bad news,” he said gruffly and disappeared into the larder.
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
MARJORIE HOPED JOHN WOULD BE HOME SOON. HE had worked past midnight every night this week. She ran a hand through her hair, eyed her empty glass. Better not. She’d had three already. Was this how one became an alcoholic? She got up suddenly, turned on the radio and the stereo at high volume. A cacophony of sound blared through the room, a jazz band clashing against a trio of Latin singers, bringing a kind of life. She went through the ground floor again, turning on all the lights. Conservation be damned. Her nerves were jumping and she was having a little difficulty focusing her eyes. After all, what was there to stay sober for? She picked up her glass and headed for the sideboard.
Halfway across the room she stopped, catching some half-heard sound. Lottie was barking furiously, shut up in the laundry room. She hesitated, then turned down the radio and stereo. This time it was unmistakably the front doorbell. She stood in the middle of the room. Who would… ? The bell rang again. Then a knock. How silly of her! As if a prowler would knock at the door. It was probably a friend. Yes, thank God, someone to talk to, spend the evening with. She hurried to the hall, turned on the porch light. Through the stained glass window to the left of the door she saw the silhouette of a man. Panic seized her again. Distant thunder growled. She took a deep breath, then leaned against the door and called out as calmly as she could manage, “Who is it?”
“Ian Peterson.”
She stared blankly at the door for a moment, mind a blur. She slowly slid back the chain and the two bolts and opened the door a crack. His hair was ruffled. His jacket showed wrinkles and he wore no tie. A wave of embarrassment ran over her as she realized what a sight she must present, too, with her hair awry, clutching an empty glass in one hand and dressed, for God’s sake, in a tatty old sundress because it was so hot. She smoothed her dress with one sticky hand and tried to hide the glass behind her with the other.
“Oh, Mr. Peterson. Um, I’m afraid John isn’t here. He’s, um, working at the lab this evening.”
“Oh? I was hoping to catch him here.”
“Well, I’m sure you could go round—”
A sudden wind howled acro
ss the yard, blowing leaves over Peterson’s shoulders. “Oh!” Marjorie exclaimed. Peterson automatically stepped inside. She slammed the door. “My word, what a gust,” she said.
“Storm coming.”
“How was it on the road?”
“Difficult. I’ve been laid up, actually, in a hotel south of here for several days. After I recovered I decided to take a run by here to see if John has anything new.”
“Well, I think not, Mr. Peterson. He—”
“Ian. Please.”
“Well, Ian, John’s been scrounging fuel for the power supply the laboratory has. He says he can’t rely on commercial service any longer. That’s been taking his time. He is continuing to transmit, I can tell you that.”
Peterson nodded. “Good. I suppose that is all anyone can expect. It was an interesting experiment.” He smiled. “I suppose I half-believed it could be done, you know.”
“But can’t it still? I mean…”
“I think there’s something we don’t understand about the process. I must admit I was for the most part interested in the work simply because it was a good bit of science in its own right. A last indulgence of mine, I suppose. Playing cards on the Titantic. I’ve had a chance to think this over the last few days. I left London, thinking I was all right, and then the illness hit me again. I tried to get into a hospital and was rejected. No room. So I stayed in a hotel, riding out the last side effects. Take no food, that’s the cure. So I thought about the experiment to distract myself.”
“My word. Do come and sit.” Marjorie saw as he moved into the light that Peterson was pale and thinner. There was a sunken, hollow look about his eyes. “This illness, was it…”
“Yes, the cloud-carried thing. Even after they clear it from your system, there are residual metabolic irregularities.”
“We’ve been eating tinned food. The radio says that’s best.”
Peterson grimaced. “Yes, they would say that. It means they haven’t the treating fluids they need to save the present crop. I telephoned my Sek today and learned quite a few little gems I suppose they haven’t told the public.”
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