Timescape

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.