back to the Deputy-Director at the first check. If she could handle a recalcitrant fifth form whose parents had paid in advance for exam results, and type Father’s illegible manuscripts while running his house for him with the smoothness of a Royal Navy First-Lieutenant, then David Audley maybe didn’t rate nine-point-five after all. Compared with Father (never mind the fifth form) he bloody-well didn’t move the needle!
She pulled the Michelin out of Mrs Harlin’s hand. ‘Then I presume he left a number where he can be contacted, Mrs Harlin?’
St Servan — and it would be well to the back—
‘No, Miss Loftus.’
She would not look up. Compared with the British Michelin, with St Albans , and St David ’ s , and … St David ’ s , and St Helen ’ s and St Ives , and whatever else, there were pages and pages of saints in France, recording the ancient triumph of Christianity over paganism— Ste-Affrique , and Ste-Agreve , and St Beat and St Brieuc — St Etienne, St Dizier — tiny places, remembering outlandish, forgotten saints—who had been St Fulgent ? Or St Lo , where so many Americans had died in 1944 (but not Major Ed Parker!)—and St Nazaire (where so many of Father’s friends had distinguished themselves, and died too)—and, and, and— St Quentin , where Paul’s 1914-18 heroes had gone over the top into the German barbed-wire … but— almost there —
‘Miss Loftus—‘
St Servan — that looked like it— lie et Vilaine , not far from St Malo — therefore not too far from the Normandy battlefields, and the Pointe du Hoc—
‘Miss Loftus!’ A white envelope was thrust into the outside edge of her vision.
Elizabeth revenged herself by ignoring the envelope, with an effort. For there were other St Servans—or Saint-Servans: there was one far to the east, in Haute-Marne, and another, far to the south-east, in the Vaucluse— St Servan-les-Ruines —
‘Miss Loftus—‘ The envelope intruded even further ‘—Dr Audley has marked this message “Urgent”. So if you could perhaps spare the time to look at its contents -?’ Mrs Harlin’s voice was tight as a eunuch’s bow-string in old Constantinople.
Elizabeth accepted the envelope, which was addressed and privatized to her in Audley’s own untidy hand.
Those examiners had been good , thought Elizabeth critically. Those Cambridge examiners — they had been good at deciphering calligraphy, as well as taking up his historical scholarship, who had once awarded David Audley his double-first at Cambridge! For not even dear James Cable ’ s illegible scrawl was worse than this —
Elizabeth — If you want to know more about Haddock Thomas, put your skates on, and get on down double-quick to the Abyssinian War memorial, on the Embankment, where I shall meet you —
Abyssinian War? Which Abyssinian War was that—?
‘And Dr Mitchell, Miss Loftus,’ said Mrs Harlin, as though both names were now equally distasteful to her.
‘Dr Mitchell, Mrs Harlin?’
‘He’d like you to lunch with him in the Marshal Ney public house, Miss Loftus. If you can spare the time from other duties.’ Mrs Harlin pursed her lips. ‘Strictly a business lunch, he said.’
4
AFTER FIVE minutes Elizabeth realized that she ought to have known better, and after ten she knew better: it should have been obvious from the start that David Audley would never cool his heels for her, and even more obvious that he would try to run the show. In his place she would have done the same.
She looked up and down the road again in vain, and then across it, towards the gleaming green-glass Xenophon Oil tower on the far corner; and then turned back to her continued half-contemplation of the Roll of Honour of the Abyssinian War of 1867-8, which listed the officers, NCOs and other ranks who had ‘perished in battle, or died of wounds or disease’ for Queen and Empire—
Particularly, she ought to have known better than to have come running at Audley’s first command,
She pulled the Michelin out of Mrs Harlin’s hand. ‘Then I presume he left a number where he can be contacted, Mrs Harlin?’
St Servan — and it would be well to the back—
‘No, Miss Loftus.’
She would not look up. Compared with the British Michelin, with St Albans , and St David ’ s , and … St David ’ s , and St Helen ’ s and St Ives , and whatever else, there were pages and pages of saints in France, recording the ancient triumph of Christianity over paganism— Ste-Affrique , and Ste-Agreve , and St Beat and St Brieuc — St Etienne, St Dizier — tiny places, remembering outlandish, forgotten saints—who had been St Fulgent ? Or St Lo , where so many Americans had died in 1944 (but not Major Ed Parker!)—and St Nazaire (where so many of Father’s friends had distinguished themselves, and died too)—and, and, and— St Quentin , where Paul’s 1914-18 heroes had gone over the top into the German barbed-wire … but— almost there —
‘Miss Loftus—‘
St Servan — that looked like it— lie et Vilaine , not far from St Malo — therefore not too far from the Normandy battlefields, and the Pointe du Hoc—
‘Miss Loftus!’ A white envelope was thrust into the outside edge of her vision.
Elizabeth revenged herself by ignoring the envelope, with an effort. For there were other St Servans—or Saint-Servans: there was one far to the east, in Haute-Marne, and another, far to the south-east, in the Vaucluse— St Servan-les-Ruines —
‘Miss Loftus—‘ The envelope intruded even further ‘—Dr Audley has marked this message “Urgent”. So if you could perhaps spare the time to look at its contents -?’ Mrs Harlin’s voice was tight as a eunuch’s bow-string in old Constantinople.
Elizabeth accepted the envelope, which was addressed and privatized to her in Audley’s own untidy hand.
Those examiners had been good , thought Elizabeth critically. Those Cambridge examiners — they had been good at deciphering calligraphy, as well as taking up his historical scholarship, who had once awarded David Audley his double-first at Cambridge! For not even dear James Cable ’ s illegible scrawl was worse than this —
Elizabeth — If you want to know more about Haddock Thomas, put your skates on, and get on down double-quick to the Abyssinian War memorial, on the Embankment, where I shall meet you —
Abyssinian War? Which Abyssinian War was that—?
‘And Dr Mitchell, Miss Loftus,’ said Mrs Harlin, as though both names were now equally distasteful to her.
‘Dr Mitchell, Mrs Harlin?’
‘He’d like you to lunch with him in the Marshal Ney public house, Miss Loftus. If you can spare the time from other duties.’ Mrs Harlin pursed her lips. ‘Strictly a business lunch, he said.’
4
AFTER FIVE minutes Elizabeth realized that she ought to have known better, and after ten she knew better: it should have been obvious from the start that David Audley would never cool his heels for her, and even more obvious that he would try to run the show. In his place she would have done the same.
She looked up and down the road again in vain, and then across it, towards the gleaming green-glass Xenophon Oil tower on the far corner; and then turned back to her continued half-contemplation of the Roll of Honour of the Abyssinian War of 1867-8, which listed the officers, NCOs and other ranks who had ‘perished in battle, or died of wounds or disease’ for Queen and Empire—
Particularly, she ought to have known better than to have come running at Audley’s first command,
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