Recovery and the Return of Ethan Hart by Stephen Benatar Page B

truly has a gift.”
    He nods—though only after hesitation. “What else? What about…well, what about next week? Next month? Next year?”
    I laugh and shrug and hold on tightly to his arm. “Oh, all the usual.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œPlans in a state of flux… Uncertainty about the course one’s life is going to take… At this point, however, wouldn’t that apply to most of us?”
    Besides, she’d already seen Matt and knew he was American; had probably sensed how much I cared for him.
    â€œShe also prophesied a change of job—well, naturally. A change of scenery—well, again, I’d never have guessed that, would you? As I say, she was far less good about the future.” (And I certainly don’t want to burden him with her predictions of approaching hardship.) “Oh, look, we’re nearly there and you haven’t given me one hint of what she said to you!”
    â€œNothing of any interest!”
    He kicks a pebble into the gutter.
    â€œOh,” he says, “she was okay about a lot of it. Strained relations with my dad. Death of someone very close.” The need to be fair gradually wins out over his humour to be grudging. “Better than okay, in fact. She even told me that I come from a town where she could see a large university, lots of water and, listen to this, a theatre I often attend that she thought was named after a well-known composer.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œI guess she meant the Shubert.”
    However, with a slightly lopsided smile, he then adds: “But it wasn’t named after the composer. It was named after the Shubert Brothers. S-H, not S- C -H. It’s a chain of theatres all across the States.”
    â€œWell, that’s quite good.” And it is, too, despite the woman’s error, surely understandable in someone not conversant with life in America. I try to remember if in London (or anywhere else I know) there’s a theatre which sounds as if it might have been commemorating a composer.
    â€œSo why,” he asks, “if she’s so blasted hot on some things, can’t she be a bit more informative about others?”
    â€œOh, they never are. Never are. Damn ’em!”
    I’m not actually sure if that’s true, but anyway I’ve said the right thing. Suddenly he grins and gives my arm a squeeze. “Yes, that’s right. Damn ’em all to hell!”
    But already I’ve had second thoughts. I rapidly recant. “No. It’s as I mentioned before. What sane person would seriously want to know the truth about their future? I mean, if they were powerless to change it.”
    Why not admit it? I don’t even want to know the truth about next Saturday. Not any longer. Is the dance really a prelude to departure? Is the date all settled for the pulling out of the entire squadron? Earlier—if only in my thoughts—I may have been patronizing about Trixie: about her not looking much beyond the next highlight. If so, I apologize. Now I decide I’ll follow her example.

13
    As Tom stares at the chambermaid she takes a picture from her pocket.
    â€œLook. I been carrying this around now for more than forty-five blinking years.”
    Tom misunderstands her.
    â€œNo, I don’t mean always in my overall. I live here, you see. Got a tiny bedroom on the top floor.”
    â€œWell—good God—this is great! I don’t know where to start.”
    He smiles.
    â€œOh, first by asking you to sit down, obviously. My name is Newman, Tom Newman. And this is…well, this young man is a good friend of mine who may have some connection to the lady in the photograph…” I nod at the chambermaid, who by now is seated, a little stiffly, in a small armchair with a striped cover. “It’s all a bit complicated, but… Well, now then, you are Ms—?”
    â€œMorris. You can call me Trixie if you like.” She