past: 'This is love, my Lambkin,' he had said upon one occasion, putting her hand firmly on his groin, with its large moulded lump inside the skinny jeans. 'And this is for you.' But now Pussy was getting into the carriage.
That left Tom, due to arrive at Victoria.
Then Lamb noticed that Monkey was carrying an umbrella. How had she not noticed it before? No, Monkey must have somehow masked it with his body until five out of the six members of the Underground Plan cell were present; chat still left Tom unaccounted for. Wait, Monkey had a blue handkerchief in his breast pocket where normally a white one was customary. Now that he had definitely put in place within the last few minutes; she couldn't have missed the bl ue handkerchief, which, coupled with the umbrella meant Yes, meeting abandoned for the time being, same route to be tried again in four hours' time, same procedure. Any cell member unable to do that for personal reasons to tell the person closest to them in the carriage.
Perhaps Monkey like Lamb found the crowds oppressive. This was certainly no occasion for any kind of planning meeting. Four hours brought them well past the rush hour to another theoretically dead period, off ice workers vanished. The Under ground Plan involved three possible times of day, the third (which would be used following an evening cancellation) being at ten thirty the next morning. But everyone found that time difficult, and it had so far only been used once.
'Good news,' Beagle was saying in her ear. 'We're really into something." Then he patted her bottom, felt it really, followed the shape of it with his hand ... Lamb gave Beagle a look of unforced indignation. 'My place afterwards,' he murmured. And was gone. Lamb left at the next station without further contact of any description with the rest of the cell.
Yes, she thought rather bitterly, seven o'clock was no problem to her. What did she have to do that was more important than Innoright? What did she have to do, come to think of it? But Lamb stopped that train of thought at once, that really was not the way to think, not in any way, not ever according to the instructions of the nice doctor. And although Lamb would never dream of telling the nice doctor what she was up to at Innoright, she still had a feeling that he, the doctor, would not totally disapprove. Lamb was after all thinking of others just as the doctor had told her to do, and at the same time valuing herself.
'Better to love others than hate yourself.' Lamb was definitely loving others - the others being the animals. And Beagle.
Lamb picked up a taxi outside the Tube station and went home.
Lamb's sister looked up when Lamb entered the house; the front door of the little Chelsea house which they shared opened directly into the sitting-room. The first sight which should have met Lamb's eyes at this point was a large oil portrait — over-large for the small room - which hung in a dominating fashion over the fireplace. It showed a man in military uniform; he had an incongruously fierce air amid the girlish chintzes with which the room was decorated. But Lamb took care not to look at the portrait and thus avoided the ferocious gaze which her father appeared to be bestowing upon the room's inhabitants. The nice young doctor had talked to her at length about 'finding your own way of dealing with your father's memory'. Lamb's own way was to refuse to look at the portrait altogether otherwise she found rage, what was worse, helpless rage, welling up inside her.
It helped Lamb to inspect automatically instead the various photographs of her mother which stood in silver frames on the occasional tables, chintz-draped, scattered about the room. An observer would have noted the strong resemblance between Lamb and her mother, even down to the tense expression they shared; but between the girl now standing (unseeing) beneath the portrait and the portrait's subject, it was difficult to see any resemblance at all.
'Good day,
That left Tom, due to arrive at Victoria.
Then Lamb noticed that Monkey was carrying an umbrella. How had she not noticed it before? No, Monkey must have somehow masked it with his body until five out of the six members of the Underground Plan cell were present; chat still left Tom unaccounted for. Wait, Monkey had a blue handkerchief in his breast pocket where normally a white one was customary. Now that he had definitely put in place within the last few minutes; she couldn't have missed the bl ue handkerchief, which, coupled with the umbrella meant Yes, meeting abandoned for the time being, same route to be tried again in four hours' time, same procedure. Any cell member unable to do that for personal reasons to tell the person closest to them in the carriage.
Perhaps Monkey like Lamb found the crowds oppressive. This was certainly no occasion for any kind of planning meeting. Four hours brought them well past the rush hour to another theoretically dead period, off ice workers vanished. The Under ground Plan involved three possible times of day, the third (which would be used following an evening cancellation) being at ten thirty the next morning. But everyone found that time difficult, and it had so far only been used once.
'Good news,' Beagle was saying in her ear. 'We're really into something." Then he patted her bottom, felt it really, followed the shape of it with his hand ... Lamb gave Beagle a look of unforced indignation. 'My place afterwards,' he murmured. And was gone. Lamb left at the next station without further contact of any description with the rest of the cell.
Yes, she thought rather bitterly, seven o'clock was no problem to her. What did she have to do that was more important than Innoright? What did she have to do, come to think of it? But Lamb stopped that train of thought at once, that really was not the way to think, not in any way, not ever according to the instructions of the nice doctor. And although Lamb would never dream of telling the nice doctor what she was up to at Innoright, she still had a feeling that he, the doctor, would not totally disapprove. Lamb was after all thinking of others just as the doctor had told her to do, and at the same time valuing herself.
'Better to love others than hate yourself.' Lamb was definitely loving others - the others being the animals. And Beagle.
Lamb picked up a taxi outside the Tube station and went home.
Lamb's sister looked up when Lamb entered the house; the front door of the little Chelsea house which they shared opened directly into the sitting-room. The first sight which should have met Lamb's eyes at this point was a large oil portrait — over-large for the small room - which hung in a dominating fashion over the fireplace. It showed a man in military uniform; he had an incongruously fierce air amid the girlish chintzes with which the room was decorated. But Lamb took care not to look at the portrait and thus avoided the ferocious gaze which her father appeared to be bestowing upon the room's inhabitants. The nice young doctor had talked to her at length about 'finding your own way of dealing with your father's memory'. Lamb's own way was to refuse to look at the portrait altogether otherwise she found rage, what was worse, helpless rage, welling up inside her.
It helped Lamb to inspect automatically instead the various photographs of her mother which stood in silver frames on the occasional tables, chintz-draped, scattered about the room. An observer would have noted the strong resemblance between Lamb and her mother, even down to the tense expression they shared; but between the girl now standing (unseeing) beneath the portrait and the portrait's subject, it was difficult to see any resemblance at all.
'Good day,
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