them in detail.’
He proceeded to rattle off at considerable speed, so that Tony had to ask him to slow down, a variety of extracts from the volumes in front of him. They went into great detail about population details, boundary changes and physical features of each district. Then Foster showed him the form in which he wanted the notes typed up. While Tony was typing he caught the man looking at him in a way that was hard to define. It was as though he were – what? Afraid of Tony, jealous of him, assessing him as a rival? Something of all these, perhaps, with something else that he could not place.
At ten minutes to one Jenny put her head round the study door. ‘Have you almost finished, Eversley?’
‘For today, yes.’
‘You have time for a drink before you go, Mr Bain-Truscott?’
They drank sherry in the drawing-room from small, beautiful glasses. He asked them to call him Tony because his full name was such a mouthful.
Foster was drinking his sherry in an abstracted manner, head sunk in his shoulders. When she rather sharply called him to attention he said, of course, Tony by all means. There was no reciprocal suggestion that he should use their Christian names.
‘How did it go this morning?’
‘Very well.’ Foster gave a weak smile. ‘Mr – Tony is an excellent typist.’
It was she who showed him out. ‘I’m sorry not to invite you to lunch, but we have only a very light midday meal. In the afternoon Eversley often lies down for an hour. I told you he’s not very strong.’ As she opened the door there was the sidelong cat-like look suggesting that they shared some secret.
Wednesday morning was a repetition of Tuesday, the dictation, the typing, the glass of sherry. It seemed to Tony that Foster was reading passages from books and he suggested that if they were suitably marked he could save time by copying them without the need for dictation. Foster pulled at his upper lip dubiously.
‘Perhaps. I shall have to go up to the British Museum tomorrow, and I shall leave something for copy typing. But for most of this material that wouldn’t do, it wouldn’t do at all. I have to select passages that fit together. I don’t think I could possibly mark them all up in advance.’
He spoke with concern, almost with agitation, and Tony left it at that. If Foster liked to pay him for wasting time, why should he object? Foster continued on an apologetic note. ‘I’ve had secretaries before who’ve done things their way and got into a terrible muddle. Doing them like this may take longer, but I can make sure everything is in the right order.’
‘Yes, of course. How long have you been working on the book?’
‘Nearly five years.’
‘Since you came back from Africa, I suppose?’
A pause. ‘That’s right.’
‘Did you live there long?’
‘Quite a time.’ He opened another book, started to dictate again.
Suppose Foster was thirty-five, and he certainly could not be older, had he married Jenny out there or since he returned? And did his money come from Africa? Certainly he must have money, to live here and occupy himself with a project like this. There seemed to him something odd about the marriage, but again he reflected that it was not his business. That afternoon he put a second coat of paint on the chest of drawers, and in the evening told Widgey that he had a job and would pay for his keep. She waved the suggestion aside.
‘Don’t want any money, I’ve got enough. What’s the job?’ She listened with a sceptical air when he told her.
‘You want to look out for that Mrs Foster. Sounds to me as if she’s got her hooks into you.’
‘She’s not like that.’ He rather regretted saying anything.
‘He must be pretty wet.’ On this he made no comment. ‘Don’t get mixed up with her the way you did with Violet. Have a cuppa?’
‘It would never have done,’ he said as he drank the scalding liquid. ‘You were quite right.’ The thought of Violet’s opulent flesh and
He proceeded to rattle off at considerable speed, so that Tony had to ask him to slow down, a variety of extracts from the volumes in front of him. They went into great detail about population details, boundary changes and physical features of each district. Then Foster showed him the form in which he wanted the notes typed up. While Tony was typing he caught the man looking at him in a way that was hard to define. It was as though he were – what? Afraid of Tony, jealous of him, assessing him as a rival? Something of all these, perhaps, with something else that he could not place.
At ten minutes to one Jenny put her head round the study door. ‘Have you almost finished, Eversley?’
‘For today, yes.’
‘You have time for a drink before you go, Mr Bain-Truscott?’
They drank sherry in the drawing-room from small, beautiful glasses. He asked them to call him Tony because his full name was such a mouthful.
Foster was drinking his sherry in an abstracted manner, head sunk in his shoulders. When she rather sharply called him to attention he said, of course, Tony by all means. There was no reciprocal suggestion that he should use their Christian names.
‘How did it go this morning?’
‘Very well.’ Foster gave a weak smile. ‘Mr – Tony is an excellent typist.’
It was she who showed him out. ‘I’m sorry not to invite you to lunch, but we have only a very light midday meal. In the afternoon Eversley often lies down for an hour. I told you he’s not very strong.’ As she opened the door there was the sidelong cat-like look suggesting that they shared some secret.
Wednesday morning was a repetition of Tuesday, the dictation, the typing, the glass of sherry. It seemed to Tony that Foster was reading passages from books and he suggested that if they were suitably marked he could save time by copying them without the need for dictation. Foster pulled at his upper lip dubiously.
‘Perhaps. I shall have to go up to the British Museum tomorrow, and I shall leave something for copy typing. But for most of this material that wouldn’t do, it wouldn’t do at all. I have to select passages that fit together. I don’t think I could possibly mark them all up in advance.’
He spoke with concern, almost with agitation, and Tony left it at that. If Foster liked to pay him for wasting time, why should he object? Foster continued on an apologetic note. ‘I’ve had secretaries before who’ve done things their way and got into a terrible muddle. Doing them like this may take longer, but I can make sure everything is in the right order.’
‘Yes, of course. How long have you been working on the book?’
‘Nearly five years.’
‘Since you came back from Africa, I suppose?’
A pause. ‘That’s right.’
‘Did you live there long?’
‘Quite a time.’ He opened another book, started to dictate again.
Suppose Foster was thirty-five, and he certainly could not be older, had he married Jenny out there or since he returned? And did his money come from Africa? Certainly he must have money, to live here and occupy himself with a project like this. There seemed to him something odd about the marriage, but again he reflected that it was not his business. That afternoon he put a second coat of paint on the chest of drawers, and in the evening told Widgey that he had a job and would pay for his keep. She waved the suggestion aside.
‘Don’t want any money, I’ve got enough. What’s the job?’ She listened with a sceptical air when he told her.
‘You want to look out for that Mrs Foster. Sounds to me as if she’s got her hooks into you.’
‘She’s not like that.’ He rather regretted saying anything.
‘He must be pretty wet.’ On this he made no comment. ‘Don’t get mixed up with her the way you did with Violet. Have a cuppa?’
‘It would never have done,’ he said as he drank the scalding liquid. ‘You were quite right.’ The thought of Violet’s opulent flesh and
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