by Burke, John
“They’re not going ahead, after what they know happened?”
“The law must take its premeditated course. Or do I mean preordained? Anyway, there’s no guarantee my extenuating circumstances will be regarded as extenuating. I registered bright green on the breathalyser, the doctor got some nicely whiskified specimens, and legally I was way over proof. I doubt whether a magistrate cares how I got that way.”
“But I can’t believe...”
“Neither can I, really. But I’m a born pessimist. Assuming I’m right, and I get grounded for a year, will you be my chauffeuse? I thought you performed rather well during that brief trial period.”
“But I’m bound to have other work to do. I can’t guarantee being in the same part of the country as you – not all the time.”
“A pity,” said Mark, “because that’s just what I had in mind for you. I thought it was time I found myself a good secure job, where I could stay in one place and look after the wife and kids.”
“The wife – and kids?”
“You,” he said. “And them, when they’re ready to put in an appearance.” He hurried on as though afraid to stop, afraid to give her a chance to argue. “Not that I mean to be too settled. Not forever. I’ve been talking to an old friend who’s put me on to a rather interesting possibility with the Conservation Council. Protecting hedges and rights of way from grasping farmers and local authorities. Keeping an eye on Government expansion and general crookery. Fighting every inch – literally to the last ditch.”
“It sounds like you,” she said.
“You think so?”
“Yes.”
“Three years of it. And then, if I want to, there’s a chance of going on to overseas work – ecological studies in Africa, sticking my neck out as high as a giraffe, keeping an eye on exploiters, bug spreaders, soil destroyers, the pesticide vandals who think that murderous spraying will save the world. It’s liable to be rough, thankless...” “Thanks,” said Ellen. “I’m with you.”
“You mean that? Really with me? You’ll marry me?”
Ellen looked away. She wanted just the briefest respite. She knew what she was going to say, knew she was committed, knew there was only one way out across the world now. But let there be a breathing space.
She found herself looking through the latticed iron at two women in the doorway. They were partially obscured from her by a plant, the end of a table, and the waiter who had planted himself in front of them. There was a brief wrangle, then the women had gone and the door had swung shut behind them.
The waiter came to stand at Mark’s shoulder.
Ellen said: “You turned those ladies away.”
“I’m afraid I had to, madam.”
“If I’d known this was one of those restaurants with a sex prejudice...”
“I beg your pardon, madam?”
“Simply because they were unescorted women...”
“It was simply that the ladies in question were wearing trouser suits. It is not our policy to condone such vagaries.”
“If I wanted to come in here...”
“Darling,” said Mark.
The waiter took this as a cue to withdraw.
“I never heard anything so grotesque,” said Ellen. “In this day and age...”
“Darling,” said Mark forcefully. “We are not here to debate male or female superiority. By all means let’s have some sign of equality. Right? I’ve asked you a straight question. Any chance of a straight answer?”
“Yes.”
“Yes to the last question, or the earlier one?”
“Stop niggling,” said Ellen. “Yes to both.”
She supposed they had coffee, and supposed that in due course Mark paid the bill. She noticed none of it. They were on their way out of the restaurant when she awoke to their surroundings. There were a thousand things to be talked about, worried about, decided once and for all.
She said: “You think it’s safe?”
“Getting married?”
“And bringing children into the world. I mean. David, drowned...down there with those...those awful creatures. Waiting to be dragged up again...let loose.”
“Through a solid lead sheath?” Mark stood on the kerb, looking for a taxi. He pursed his lips. “But you could be right. I’ve heard about nerve gases escaping in a train smash, mines blowing up a quarter of a century after the end of the war, and gas containers in the Baltic starting to leak and burning fishermen. It’s dangerous, isn’t it? A world full of nasty little joke boxes – bombs, missiles, plague germ packages, the rest. Press the wrong knob, open one little hatch, and – boom! Destruction. Not worth the effort of plodding on, really.”
“If you were that much of a pessimist,” said Ellen, “you wouldn’t have worked so hard on those maps. And you wouldn’t be so mad keen on this new job.”
“Did I say I was mad keen?”
“Not in so many words. But you are.”
“I’m a fool, then. Like those idiots who used to plant oak trees, and never lived to see them.”
“But the oak trees are there.”
“Until some town planner bulldozes them out of existence.”
“From now on, it’s your job to stop that kind of thing, isn’t it?”
There was no sign of a taxi. The gutters were choked with tattered newspaper and cigarette packets. A few ragged cabbage leaves blew out of an alley, and on the corner of the street a man in a pin-striped navy blue suit pushed a wad of banknotes at a stooped man who was pretending not to notice.
“Oak trees?” said Mark. He slipped Ellen’s arm through his and they began to walk away, slowly and comfortably in step. “Let’s go and find them, shall we?”
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