“Don’t look so eager, proles,” Cecil drawled. “The storm means Mrs Mayberry isn’t here. Our lord and master sent her home after lunch. So it’s cook it yourself night tonight.”
Nicholas and Uri let out a groan.
“So why aren’t you cooking it?’ Liz asked.
Cecil flashed her a smile. “I always find the female of the species is so much better at that kind of thing.”
“Pighead!”
“Go on, admit it, did you really want to taste my cooking? Besides, I looked in a minute ago, little Isabel is coping just fine.”
“Isabel’s cooking supper?” Nicholas asked. He hoped it had come out sounding like an innocent enquiry.
Cecil’s smile broadened. “Yes. All by herself. Say, Nick, why don’t you go and see if she wants a hand, or anything else?”
Nicholas could hear what sounded like a chuckle coming from Uri. He refused to turn and find out for sure. “Yes, all right,” he said.
Liz was giggling by the time he reached the door into the kitchen. Well, let them, he thought; he didn’t mind the steady joshing the others gave him now, it was all part of a day at Launde Abbey. Funny what you could get used to if it went on long enough.
Isabel Spalvas had arrived at the same time as him, a mathematician from Cardiff University. At first he didn’t even have the nerve to meet her eyes when they were talking-not that they talked much, he could never think of anything to say. But mortification at his own pathetic shyness eventually bullied him out of his shell. They were going to be under the same roof for two years, if nothing else he could talk to her as if she was just one of the boys, it was often the simplest approach. That way at least they’d be friends, then maybe, just maybe…
The kitchen had a long matt-black cast-iron range running along one whitewashed plaster wall, with a set of copper pots and even an antique bedwarmer, hanging above it. A wicker basket stood at the end, piled high with logs, but for once the fire was out. The big square wooden table in the middle of the room was covered in dishes and trays; there was a mound of wet lettuce leaves drying out in a colander next to a collection of sliced tomatoes, cucumbers, radishes, and chives.
Isabel was busy carving a joint of ham. She was the same age as Nicholas, twenty-one, about a head smaller, with sandy-blonde hair that was arranged in a mass of tiny curls just brushing her shoulders. The way she was bent over the table meant the strands obscured her face, but he could visualize her features perfectly, at any time. Almost invisible lashes framed enchantingly clear ice-blue eyes, pale freckles decorated the top half of her cheeks, the lips were narrow. Nicholas was fascinated by the dainty features, how expressive they could be: fearsomely intent when she was listening to Kitchener, beaming sunlight smiles when she was happy, when the students got together for their evening meetings in one of the rooms. She laughed most at Cecil’s jokes, of course, and Rosette’s acid gossip; Nicholas never had been able to master the art of perfectly timed one-liners, or even rugby club style stones.
He paused for a second, content just to look at her, for once without all the others nudging and pointing. She was wearing tight, faded jeans, and a sleeveless white blouse, with Mrs Mayberry’s brown apron tied round her waist. One day he’d have the courage to come out and say what he felt to her face, say that she was gorgeous, say that she made the whole world worth living in. And after that he’d lean forwards for a kiss. One day.
“Hello, Isabel,” he blurted. Damn, that had come out too loud and gushy.
She glanced up from the joint. “Hi, Nick. It’s going to be salad tonight, I’m afraid.”
“You haven’t done all this yourself, have you? You should have said, I would have helped. I did some cooking when I was at Cambridge. I got quite good at it.”
“It’s all right, Mrs Mayberry prepared most of it after lunch. You didn’t think she’d trust us with it, did you? I’m just finishing off. Do you think this’ll be enough?” She wagged the knife at the plate of meat she had cut.
“Yes, fine. If they want any more, Cecil can cut it.”
“Hmm, that’ll be the day.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Take the trays through, would you.”
“Right.” He grabbed the one nearest to him, piled high with plates and dishes.
“Not that one!”
Nicholas put it down with a guilty lurch. The plates threatened to keel over. Isabel put her hand out hurriedly to stop them.
“Those are the plates from lunch, Nick,” she said with a tinge of reproach.
“Sorry.” How stupid, he raged silently. He knew the heat he could feel on his face was a crimson blush.
“Try this one,” she said in a gentler voice.
He picked up the one she indicated, and turned for the door, feeling totally worthless.
“Nick. Thank you for offering to help. None of the others did.”
She was giving him a soft smile, and there was something in her expression which said she understood.
“That’s OK, any time.”
Nicholas and Uri were setting the places when Edward Kitchener and Rosette Harding-Clarke came in at twenty-nine minutes past seven. He saw the old boy was in his usual clothes, baggy white trousers, white cotton shirt, cream-yellow jacket with a blue silk handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket, and a tiny red bow tie, which always made Nicholas think a butterfly had landed on his collar. There was still an air of the tiger left in Kitchener, age was not a gift he accepted gracefully. He was reasonably slim, carrying himself with undiminished vigour; his face was a long one, with skin stretched thinly around his jaw, scratchy with stubble; a crew-cut of silver hair looked almost like a cap.
Rosette Harding-Clarke walked beside him, taller by ten centimetres, an athletic-looking twenty-three-year-old, with soft auburn hair, styled so that long wavy strands licked her back well below her shoulder-blades. Her presence alone intimidated Nicholas. She had arrived along with him and Isabel, with a degree in quantum mechanics from Oxford, but her aristocratic background gave her a self-confidence which he found daunting. He had suffered too many casual put-downs from her social clique at Cambridge not to flinch each time that steel-edged Knightsbridge voice sliced through the air. She was wearing dark-grey tweedy trousers and a scarlet waistcoat with shiny brass buttons, the top two undone. And nothing underneath, Nicholas soon realized. He prayed he wasn’t blushing again, but Rosette could be overpoweringly sexy when she wanted to be.
Kitchener and Rosette were arm in arm. Like lovers, Nicholas thought, which be privately suspected was true. It wasn’t only Kitchener’s attitude towards his fellow physicists which caused conflict in his earlier years. Tabloid channel ‘casts were always sniping with rumours of him and female students. And how Kitchener had lapped that up, relishing his media-appointed role as the notorious roué! There had even been a statement, shortly after he bought Launde Abbey, that he was only going to invite female students to become his tyros, providing himself with a harem of muses. He never had, of course, it was always a fifty-fifty split, but which member of the general public made the effort to discover that? The legend remained solidly intact.
“Anybody been watching the newscasts?” Kitchener asked after he sat in the cahrer’s chair at the head of the table.
“I’ve been correlating the gamma ray data front Antomine 12,” Nicholas said.
“Well done, lad. Glad somebody’s doing something in this slackers’ paradise. Now what about that little problem I set you on magnetosphere induction generators, hey, have you solved that yet?”
“No, sorry, the gravity lens idea was fascinating, and nobody else has been tabulating the data the way I am,” Nicholas offered by way of compensation. He ducked his head, unsure how it would be received. The topics for research were always set by Kitchener, but sometimes the old boy displayed a complete lack of interest in the answers. You could never work out what he was going to press you on, which could get disconcerting. That aside, Nicholas reckoned he’d learnt more a
bout the methodology of analysing problems in the three months he’d been at Launde Abbey than in his three years at university. Kitchener did have the most extraordinary insights at times.
“Bloody typical,” Kitchener groused. “How many times do I have to tell you delinquents, the abstract is all very well, but it makes piddle-all difference to the human condition. There’s no bloody point in me teaching you to think properly, if you can’t use those thoughts of yours to some benefit. The way this clapped-out world is limping along, a clean source of fresh energy would be like manna from heaven right now. A wealthier world will be better able to support eggheads chasing metaphantoms. It’s to your own advantage. God, take me, unless I’d come up with those molecular interaction equations-”
“You could never have bought Launde,” Uri and Cecil chorused, laughing.
“Little buggers!” Kitchener grunted. He glanced down at the plate Isabel put in front of him, and started to poke around distrustfully with a fork. “And don’t giggle, lad,” he said without looking up, “only bloody women giggle.”
Nicholas clamped his mouth shut, and concentrated on his plate. From the corner of’ his eye he could see Isabel laughing silently.
“I was watching the newscasts this afternoon,” Kitchener said. “It looks like the Scottish PSP is about to fall.”
“It’s always on the verge of collapse,” Cecil protested loudly. “They said it wouldn’t last six months after our lot got kicked out.”
“Yes, but Zurich has cut off their credit now.”
“About time,” Liz muttered.
Nicholas knew she had lost her mother when the PSP was in power in England. She always blamed the People’s Constables, but thankfully never went into details. His own memories of President Armstrong’s brutish regime were more or less limited to the constant struggle to survive on too little food. The PSP never had much authority in rural areas, they had had enough trouble maintaining control in the urban districts.
“I hope they don’t want to link up with us again,” Cecil said.
“Why ever not?” Rosette asked. “I think it would be nice being the United Kingdom again, although having the Irish back would be pushing the point.”
“We can’t afford it,” Cecil said. “Christ, we’re only just getting back on our own feet.”
“A bigger country means greater security in the long run, darling.”
“You might as well try Eurofederalism again.”
“We’ll have to help them,” Isabel said. “They’re desperately short of food.”
“Let them grow their own,” Cecil said. “They’re not short of land, and they’ve got all those fishing rights.”
“How can you say that? There are children suffering.”
“I think Isabel’s right,” Nicholas said boldly. “Some sort of aid’s in order, even if we can’t afford a Marshall plan.”
“Now that will make a nice little complication for the New Conservatives during the election,” Kitchener said gleefully. “Trapped whichever way they turn. Serves ‘em right. Always good fun watching politicians squirming.”
Conversation meandered, as it always did, from politics to art, from music to England’s current surge of industrial redevelopment, from channel-star gossip (which Kitchener always pretended not to follow) to the latest crop of scientific papers. Cecil walked round the table, pouring the wine for everyone.
Isabel mentioned the increasing number of people using bioware processor implants, the fact that the New Conservatives had finally legalized them in England, and Kitchener declared: ‘Sheer folly.”
“I thought you would have approved,” she said. “You’re always on about enhancing cerebral capacity.”
“Rubbish, girl, having processors in your head doesn’t make you any brighter. Intellect is half instinct. Always has been. I haven’t got one, and I’ve managed pretty well.”
“But you might have achieved more with one,” Uri said.
“That’s the kind of bloody stupid comment I’d expect from you. Totally devoid of logic. Wishful thinking is sloppy thinking.”
Uri gave Kitchener a cool stare. “You have few qualms about using other enhancements to get results.”
Nicholas didn’t like the tone, it was far too polite. He shifted about in the chair, bleakly waiting for the explosion. No one was eating, Cecil had stopped filling Rosette’s glass.
But Kitchener’s voice was surprisingly mild when he answered. “I’ll use whatever I need to expand my perception, thank you, lad. I’ve been a consenting adult since before you were shitting in your nappies. Being able to discern the whole universe is the key to understanding it. If neurohormones help me in that, then that makes them no different to a particle accelerator, or any other form of research tool, in my book.”
“Neat answer. Pity you don’t stick to neurohormones, pity you have to expand your consciousness with shit.”
“Nothing I take affects my intellect. Only a fool would think otherwise; Expanded consciousness is total crap, there’s no such thing, only recreational intoxication, it’s a diversion, stepping outside your problems for a few hours.”
“Well, it’s certainly helped you overcome a few problems, hasn’t it?” Uri’s face was blank civility.
“I always thought bioware nodes would be terrifically useful if you want to access data quickly,” Rosette said brightly.
Cecil’s hand came down on Uri’s shoulder, squeezing softly. He started pouring some wine into Uri’s glass.
Kitchener turned to Rosette. “Use a bloody terminal, girl, don’t be so damn lazy. That’s all implants are, convenience laziness. It’s precisely the kind of attitude which got us into our present state. People never listen to common sense. We shouted about the greenhouse gases till we were blue in the face. Bloody hopeless. They just went on burning petrol and coal.”
“What kind of car did you use?” Liz asked slyly.
“There weren’t any electric cars then. I had to use petrol.”
“Or a bicycle,” Rosette said.
“A horse,” Nicholas suggested.
“A rickshaw,” Isabel giggled.
“Perhaps you could even have walked,” Cecil chipped in.
“Leave off, you little buggers,” Kitchener grunted. “No bloody respect. Cecil, at least fill my glass, lad, it’s wine not perfume, you don’t spray it on.”
Nicholas managed to catch Isabel’s eye, and he smiled. “The salad’s lovely.”
“Thank you,” she said.
Rosette held her cut-crystal wineglass up to the light, turning it slowly. Fragments of refracted light drifted across her face, stipples of gold and violet. “You never compliment Mrs Mayberry when she cooks supper, why is that, Nicky, darling?”
“You never complimented Mrs Mayberry or Isabel,” he answered. “I was just being polite, it was considered important where I was brought up.”
Rosette wrinkled her nose up at him, and sipped some wine.
“Well done, lad,” Kitchener called out. “You stick up for yourself, don’t let the little vixen get on top of you.”
Nicholas and Isabel exchanged a furtive grin. He was elated, actually answering back to Rosette, and having Isabel approve.
Rosette gave Kitchener a roguish glance. “You’ve never complained before,” she murmured in a husky tone.
Kitchener laughed wickedly. “What’s for dessert, Isabel?” he asked. The storm began to abate after midnight. Nicholas was back in his room watching a vermiform pattern of sparkling blue stars dance through his terminal’s cube like a demented will-o’-the-wisp. The program was trying to detect the distinctive interference pattern caused by large dark-mass concentrations; if there was one directly between the emission point and Earth (a remote chance, but possible), the gamma rays should bend around it. Kitchener was always interested in the kind of localized spatial distortions such objects generated. His program was using up a good third of the Abbey’s lightware cruncher capacity. The kind of interference he was lookin
g for was incredibly hard to identify.
He had thought about making a start on the magnetosphere induction problem, but the dark mass project was much more interesting. It was worth enduring another of Kitchener’s tongue-lashings to be able to see the results as they came in from orbit. Dark-mass detection was well down the priority list of CNES’s in-house astronomers, it was exciting to think he might actually be ahead of them, up there at the cutting edge. Nicholas Beswick, science pioneer.
He had been in Uri’s room for most of the evening after supper, along with Liz and Isabel. It had been a good evening, he reflected; they’d chatted, and the flatscreen had been tuned to Globecast’s twenty-four-hour news channel with the sound muted. And it really did look like the Scottish PSP was going to be overthrown at last. There was rioting in Glasgow and Edinburgh and the assembly building had been firebombed, the flames soaring impressively into the night despite the heavy rain. They had watched the text streamers running along the bottom of the flatscreen and talked, drinking another bottle of Sussex wine. The others never seemed to mind that he didn’t say as much as them, he was under no pressure to venture an opinion on everything.
They had packed up around midnight, or at least, he and Isabel had left Uri and Liz alone.
He shut Uri’s door, thinking that for once he might find the nerve to ask Isabel into his room.
She stood on the gloomy landing glancing at him expectantly.
“It was a nice evening, thanks,” he said. Pathetic.
Her lips pressed together. It was her solemn expression, the one that made her look half-tragic.
“Yes, I enjoyed it,” she said. “Let’s hope there’s a new government in Scotland tomorrow. Liz will be over the moon.”
“Yes.” Now, he thought, now say it. “Goodnight,” he said meekly.
“Goodnight, Nick.”
And she’d walked off to her room.
Surely if a girl liked a boy she was supposed to show it: some small word or deed of encouragement? But she hadn’t actually discouraged him. He clung to that. If it hadn’t been for the fact he could never keep his mouth shut Nicholas might have asked Cecil for advice. Cecil never had any trouble chatting up girls when they visited the Old Plough.
The Mandel Files Page 49
