Tomorrow's ghost

by Anthony Price

‘Another of your false assumptions, dear boy,’ said the Professor. ‘I said no such thing.’

  The fair hair was shaken vigorously. ‘Not an assumption at all—an incorrect assertion perhaps, predicated on criminally misleading information. I merely extrapolated “Amazonian” from “formidable”, I admit no more than that.’ The coffee cup wobbled dangerously on its saucer as he thrust out his free hand. ‘Miss Fitzgibbon, I presume? That is, if a presumption may be allowed in place of an assertion.’

  For one fleeting second Frances was reminded of Gary’s undressing stare, but in her best Jaeger suit, and with the support beneath it which Marilyn had scorned, she was armoured against such stares. And besides, she was even more strongly reminded of other far-off days by the young man.

  ‘How do you do?’ The same strong memory cautioned her against smiling at him.

  Robbie had always maintained that her gap-toothed smile, which she had first smiled at him on just such another occasion as this—or superficially just such an occasion anyway—was the most promisingly bedroom invitation he had ever encountered, and she had never smiled so readily thereafter; at least, not until just recently for Marilyn’s advancement, and this was certainly no place for Marilyn’s tricks.

  ‘How do I do?’ The young man examined her face intently, almost as though he sensed the smile’s absence. ‘I think I do not so well—thanks to Hugo … Thank you, Hugo … But you know. Miss Fitzgibbon, he said you were formidable, and I think perhaps he was right. You might even be perilous.’

  ‘Perilous?’ It was an oddly archaic word, even allowing for the fact that he was striving for effect.

  ‘Of course. “Faerie is a perilous land, and in it are pitfalls for the unwary and dungeons for the overbold”—isn’t that right?’

  She couldn’t place the quotation, though it sounded like one which any formidable research graduate ought to have cut her milk-teeth on.

  Damn!

  ‘And no one could accuse you of not being overbold, dear boy,’ cut in Crowe drily, rescuing her. ‘Trying to catch an expert out in her own field—and with one of his books too…’

  His books?

  ‘And a thoroughly unreadable little book at that—based on a lecture he gave at St.

  Andrews before the war, wasn’t it?’ Crowe looked to her for confirmation, but then did not wait for an answer. ‘In fact, if I remember rightly, it first turned up in a collection of essays—about ten years after—and not as a book at all. It was an indifferent essay, and it must have been an appallingly dull lecture.’

  Whose lecture? She had admitted to Crowe that she might be rusty, but she hadn’t expected to be put to the test so quickly.

  ‘Not that I ever heard him lecture,’ concluded Crowe.

  Frances felt that she had to say something. ‘But you knew him?’ she asked radiating proper interest.

  ‘Ronald? Ah … well, of course. But chiefly through my supervisor—‘

  Ronald?

  ‘—who didn’t wholly approve of him.’

  ‘Sour grapes,’ said the fair-haired young man. ‘The favourite food of the only mythical monster commonly found in Senior Common Rooms—the one with green eyes.’

  ‘No, I think not.’ Crowe shook his head. ‘This was well before he became a cult figure—before even the first volume was published.’

  Idiot, Frances admonished herself. John Ronald Reuel Tolkien.

  ‘Ah—but he’d already done well with The Hobbit, hadn’t he?’ the young man countered. ‘That was republished directly after the war—‘ He looked at Frances, then over her shoulder. “Ullo, ‘ullo, ‘ullo. Someone’s wanted by the Law.’

  Frances turned towards the door. The Law was grizzled and stocky, but unmistakable. And it was trying to catch her eye.

  ‘I think he’s looking at you. Miss Fitzgibbon,’ said the young man. ‘He probably wants to frisk you for infernal devices.’

  Frances looked at him questioningly. ‘For what?’

  ‘But don’t worry,’ the young man reassured her. ‘We’ve all been through the process, and it’s surprisingly painless. The whole place is absolutely crawling with security types—it’s getting more like Colditz University every day.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Frances.

  ‘The Minister for Ulster is collecting his honorary degree today.’ The young man shrugged. ‘Presumably they do this wherever he goes, poor devil. He must lead a dog’s life—no wonder our revered Chancellor retired from the fray.’

  ‘Oh…’ Frances trailed off nervously. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better go and see what he wants. Excuse me.’

  The Law held the door open for her, and then followed her into the ante-room.

  ‘Mrs Fitzgibbon?’

  ‘Sergeant … Ballard?’

  They examined each other’s warrant cards.

  ‘I am just about to make my final check before the count-down, madam.’

  I am in charge. In theory anyway, and because of the unit’s place in the hierarchy, I am in charge.

  ‘Very good, Mr Ballard.’

  There was no need to panic. The building was a detached one; it had been thoroughly searched several times over a forty-eight hour period; there were two men and a woman officer on the main door, and two men on the back door, with scanners.

  There were two men on the roof; there was Sergeant Ballard himself; the outside approaches to the building were covered by four monitors. There was no need to panic.

  As a result of a sequence of events which neither she nor Colonel Butler understood, there was Mrs Frances Fitzgibbon in charge of all this—the late Marilyn Francis, vice ex-Lieutenant James Cable, R.N., who had expressed himself satisfied with it. There was absolutely no need to panic, therefore.

  Sergeant Ballard was looking at her, and Frances realised how young officers felt when put in command of old soldiers vastly senior to them in years and experience.

  ‘Very good, madam.’ Sergeant Ballard paused. ‘Then I shall report back to you when the check is completed.’

  Simple routine. And if the Sergeant felt any distaste at being subjugated to a woman half his age who was drinking coffee socially while he was doing all the work, he didn’t show it.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Ballard.’

  She watched the broad back disappear, knowing that she hadn’t asked the crucial question—Are you satisfied with the precautions?—because it was also meaningless. No precautions could ever be foolproof. It all depended on whether Colonel Butler’s computer could out-think O’Leary.

  * * *

  ‘… he was a philologist really, and a very fine one. And he had a good ear, too—he could place a man by his accent with uncommon accuracy. Almost as good as Higgins in Pygmalion.’

  Frances’s heart sank: they were still discussing John Ronald Reuel Tolkien.

  ‘Is it true he was obsessed by the ‘14-‘18 war?’ The fair-haired young man’s voice was no longer bantering. ‘Are the Dead Marshes in volume two—and the whole of Mordor, for that matter—are they based on his experiences in the trenches?’

  ‘Hmm… I don’t know about that. But he was fascinated by trenches, certainly … I can remember meeting him in the High once—at Oxford. He was standing in the rain watching workmen digging a trench in the road, absolutely transfixed by them—‘ Crowe broke off as he saw Frances. ‘Ah, my dear! We have obtained a cup of coffee for you, even though it is almost time for tea, I shouldn’t wonder.’ Crowe looked at his watch.

  ‘The Chancellor’s party is evidently running behind schedule.’

  ‘Thank you. Professor.’ Frances accepted the cup. There were, of course, two schedules: the official one, and the actual one which fluctuated according to predetermined times and deviations required by security to dislocate any plans O’Leary might have. But then no doubt O’Leary would have allowed for that in his planning.

  The young man grinned at her. ‘It’s Hugo’s theory that Tolkien didn’t really know his fairy stories. Miss Fitzgibbon. According to Hugo he was a ph
ilologist who made up languages before lunch by way of relaxation, the way Hugo does The Times crossword.

  What do you think of that?’

  But the computer would have allowed for O’Leary’s allowance for a security schedule, decided Frances. It was really a question of how much information the computer had on O’Leary’s mind and methods.

  There are a great many fairy stories—thousands of them,’ she said cautiously. ‘And you find the same theme turning up independently in different countries.’

  Robbie had said that, anyway.

  ‘But what is the essence of a fairy story? What makes it different from the folk-tale?’

  The young man pursued her mercilessly.

  ‘The happy ending,’ said Crowe. ‘What Ronald called—typically—“the eucatastrophic ending”. There’s no such word, of course … In real life the rainbow has no end. In a fairy story the rainbow is not an optical phenomenon, scientifically explainable: it has a real end, complete with a pot of gold.’

  ‘Fairy gold.’

  ‘Which is not the same as human gold? I agree.’ Crowe nodded. ‘Fairy gold turns to dust in mortal hands. But so does happiness turn to dust in mortal hands—it’s only fairy stories which end with the protagonists living happily ever after. Ever after, with no winged chariot at their backs.’

  It all depended on the extent and accuracy of the information in the computer, thought Frances. No wonder Colonel Butler was worried sick.

  ‘Ah .. . now I see what you’re driving at! If a happy ending is essential to a fairy story then Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings isn’t a fairy story, because it has an unhappy ending. Or at least a bitter-sweet ending.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Crowe beamed at the young man.

  ‘Exactly nothing! What about Oscar Wilde’s fairy stories—The Happy Prince, for instance? Or The Birthday of the Infanta—that’s pure unrelieved tragedy.’

  ‘And not a fairy story at all. Fantasy is not faerie. Allegory is not faerie. Unreason is not faerie. Other reason is faerie, and comparisons are meaningless, dear boy.’

  The young man glanced at Frances. ‘He always wins by sleight of hand, you know.

  What do you think. Miss Fitzgibbon? Are the contents of women’s magazines fairy stories?’

  Frances shook herself free of Colonel Butler’s worries. If the computer had figured all the possibilities then she might be here longer than today. So far she had done very little to build up her credibility, or even to establish it. That must now be her priority.

  But what the hell did she know about fairy stories? Other than Tolkien—and there seemed to be some doubt about him—she hadn’t read a fairy story since childhood. Or listened to one—

  Or listened to one.

  ‘My grandmother once told me a story which frightened me—‘ The memory came back to her unbidden, from a dark corner of her mind suddenly illuminated so that she could even recall the place and the occasion, with the wind through the trees stirring the curtains to reveal a cold, high moon sailing through the sky outside. ‘In fact it haunted me for months afterwards…’

  She was aware of the hubbub of conversation around them, and also of the last time she had remembered the story.

  ‘She said she’d had it from her grandmother. I’ve never been able to trace it in any book.’

  That was, Robbie had not been able to find it in any of his books, when she had told it to him that last evening.

  She shivered. ‘There was this princess of a far country—very young, very beautiful of course…’ she smiled carefully, deprecating the story in advance’… most of it is really quite traditional—the spell and the three princes.’

  They were both looking at her intently; somehow, she didn’t know how, she had caught them.

  ‘She was magicked into the body of an ugly and misshapen old woman—‘

  That had been the beginning of the childhood nightmare: to be imprisoned in another body, seamed and scrawny. Slender feet deformed, talons for fingers, hooked nose and jutting chin, dribbling mouth.

  ‘—and she could only be released from the spell by a kiss from a handsome prince who truly loved her.’

  A life sentence. It had been bad enough kissing Granny, who smelt of old age as well as Chanel No. 5, even though she was by no means ugly and misshapen. But no prince in his right mind was going to kiss those lips willingly.

  Except in a fairy story, of course—

  ‘Well, the first prince who kissed her was consumed by fire and burnt to a crisp the moment he touched her lips, because he was only after her father’s kingdom.

  ‘And the second prince was frozen into a solid block of ice, because he didn’t love her, he was just sorry for her.’

  The fair-haired young man grunted derisively. ‘That’s a bit rough. But I suppose he should have known that the first two princes never win the coconut. It’s amazing how stupid princes are.’

  ‘Do be quiet, dear boy—otherwise I shall magic you into the sociology department of a certain London polytechnic for a hundred years.’ Crowe raised a warning hand. ‘Do go on. Miss Fitzgibbon. The hot kiss of greed and cold kiss of pity. And now the third kiss?’

  He was doing his best to repair the damage done by the young man’s interruption, Frances realised. But the spell was broken.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the young man contritely, as though he’d caught a sudden glimpse of her embarrassment. ‘I didn’t mean to spoil the story—please go on.’

  Frances was momentarily aware of the hubbub of conversation and the clink of coffee cups eddying around them.

  ‘…an altogether tedious man, without the least pretension…’

  ‘…so I told him to read Henry Esmond instead. A far more impressive novel than Vanity Fair, and just right for television…’

  ‘…first he put his hand on her knee. And then…’

  ‘Please go on,’ repeated the young man.

  At least they weren’t asking her awkward questions about Ronald, anyway.

  She took a deep breath. ‘The third prince … he’d been on the road for years, ever since he’d first heard how beautiful the princess was—he didn’t know anything about the spell. And when he reached the castle where she lived he asked to be taken straight to her. And he kissed her, and she was instantly transformed back to her true self again.

  And they lived happily ever after.’

  The young man frowned at her. ‘Yes … but I don’t quite see how…?’ he trailed off.

  She smiled her careful tight-lipped smile at him.

  But Granny, I don’t quite see…

  ‘Neither did he, of course,’ she said. ‘Because—can’t you guess?’

  ‘He was blind,’ said Professor Crowe.

  Frances looked at him in surprise. ‘You know the story?’

  ‘No.’ Crowe shook his head. ‘And you say your grandmother told you the story? And she’d had it from her grandmother?’

  ‘Yes. Why d’you ask? Is it important?’

  ‘No. But it is significant, I fancy.’ He nodded thoughtfully at her. ‘I rather think it isn’t a true fairy story, though. It has elements of the traditional folk-tale, of course—the original enchantment sounds typical enough. And the test-kiss, or kiss-test, is straight out of Perrault, so you’ll probably find it classified in Thompson’s Folk Motif Index. But I suspect they’ve all been grafted on to a very much darker superstition—a pagan-Christian tradition, possibly …’

  The young man laughed. ‘Oh—come on, Hugo—‘

  ‘It’s no laughing matter, dear boy. In fact, it reminds me of nothing so much as one of the superstitions associated with the Madonna del Carmine at Naples—or with the Madonna della Colera herself even…’ He nodded again at Frances. ‘In which case you were quite right to be scared, my dear—which is itself an interesting example of a child sensing the truth of something she didn’t understand and couldn’t know. Because even the telling of the Neopolitan story is considered to be unlucky except under special circumstances
, and if I were a Neapolitan and a good catholic I should be crossing myself now, I can tell you.’

  Frances stared at him. She had always felt there was something in Granny’s tale of the blind prince and the ugly princess which had eluded her, and Robbie too. Yet now she felt an irrational reluctance to collect the answer simply by asking the Professor to retell the Madonna’s story. She knew that she still wanted to know, but that she didn’t want to find out.

  The young man experienced no such qualms. ‘Your grandmother wasn’t from Naples by any remote chance, I take it?’

  ‘No.’ Frances, still staring at Crowe, caught the hint of a reluctance similar to her own.

  ‘A pity! Well … tell us about the Madonna del Carmine, Hugo. Or, better still, the Madonna della Colera—she sounds positively fascinating!’

  Crowe regarded the young man distantly. ‘That, my dear Julian, you must find out for yourself. Those are two ladies whose acquaintance I have not the slightest desire to make at present. You may inquire of Professore Amedeo in the Languages Faculty, though I doubt that he will choose to enlighten you, prudent fellow that he is.’

  The hint of reluctance was overlaid by the donnish repartee, so that Frances was no longer sure that Crowe had ever been serious, or whether he had merely been fencing with a favourite young colleague—and ‘Julian’ was almost too good to be true, anyway.

  Yet she could have sworn that there had been something there more than mere erudition in that withdrawn look, a touch of an older and humbler instinct, a different wisdom.

  Julian gaped at the Professor. ‘Good God, Hugo! Are you asking for cold iron and holy water and the Lord’s Prayer?’

  ‘Or bread and salt, and rowan berries … and if you must resort to the Lord’s Prayer—‘

  Professor Crowe craned his neck and gazed around him as though he had just remembered an important message as yet undelivered to someone who ought to be in the room ‘—don’t forget to pray aloud, dear boy…’

  That, at least, was one allusion Frances could place accurately: Robbie himself had once explained to her, at a Stratford-upon-Avon Macbeth, how both spells and counter-spells only worked when spoken out loud or traced in blood because the Devil could never see into a human soul and consequently required verbal or written undertakings, like those she had given at the marriage ceremony.