to come in. Most of the circuitry I need is being developed in their national labs, Brookhaven and so on.”
Peterson nodded. “So your report said. That’s why I want this fellow Markham in on this today.”
“Has he got the necessary weight to swing it?”
“I think so. He’s well thought of, I’m told, and he’s an American on the spot. That’s what his National Science Foundation needs to cover itself in case—”
“Ah, I see. Well, Markham’s due here any time now. Come have some coffee in my office.”
Peterson followed him into the cluttered den. Renfrew cleared books and papers off a chair, bustling about in that nervous manner people have when they have suddenly realized, along with a guest, that their office is messy. Peterson sat down, lifting his trousers at the knees and then crossing his legs. Renfrew made more of a business than necessary out of fetching the acrid-smelling coffee, because he wanted time to think. Things were starting badly; Renfrew wondered if the memories from Oxford had soured him automatically on Peterson. Well, there was nothing for it; everyone was fairly edgy these days, anyway. Perhaps Markham could smooth things over when he arrived.
CHAPTER TWO
Marjorie locked the kitchen door behind her and walked round the side of the house, carrying a bucket of chicken feed. The lawn behind the house was crisply quartered by brick paths, with a sundial at the intersection. From force of habit, she followed the path and did not step on the wet grass. Beyond the lawn was a formal rose garden, her own pet project. As she walked through it, breaking beaded spider webs with her body, she stopped here and there to pinch off a dead bloom or to sniff at a bud. It was early in the year, but a few roses were blossoming already. She talked to each bush as she passed it.
“Charlotte Armstrong, you’re doing very well. Look at all those buds. You’re going to be absolutely beautiful this summer. Tiffany, how are you? I see some greenfly on you. I’ll have to spray you. Good morning, Queen Elizabeth, you’re looking very healthy, but you’re sticking out rather too far into the path. I should have pruned you more on this side.”
Somewhere in the distance she could hear a knocking sound. It alternated with the trill of a blue tit perched on the hedge. With a start she realized that the knocking was coming from her own house. It couldn’t be Heather or Linda; they would come round the back. She turned. Raindrops splattered from the leaves as she brushed past the rose bushes. She hurried across the lawn and round the side of the house, setting the bucket down by the kitchen door.
A shabbily dressed woman with a pitcher in her hand was turning away from the front door. She looked as though she had camped all night; her hair was matted and there were smudges on her face. She was about Marjorie’s height, but thin and round-shouldered.
Marjorie hesitated. So did the woman. They eyed each other across the U-shaped sweep of the gravel drive. Then Marjorie moved forward.
“Good morning.” She was about to say, “Can I do something for you?” but held back, uncertain as to whether she wanted to do anything for this woman or not.
“Morning, Miss. Could you lend me a bit o’ milk, do you think? I’m all out o’ milk and the kids ’aven’t ’ad their breakfast yet.” Her manner was confident but somehow not cordial.
Marjorie narrowed her eyes. “Where are you from?” she asked.
“We just moved into the old farm down the road. Just a little milk, lady.” The woman moved closer to her, holding out the pitcher.
The old farm—but that’s derelict, Marjorie thought. They must be squatters. Her uneasiness increased.
“Why do you come here? The shops are open at this time of day. There’s a farm along the road, you know, where you can buy milk.”
“Come on, lady, you wouldn’t make me walk miles while the little ones are waiting, would you? I’ll let you ’ave it back. Don’t you believe me?”
No, Marjorie thought. Why hadn’t the woman gone to one of her own kind? There were some little Council houses just a few yards beyond her grounds.
“I’m sorry,” she said firmly, “but I haven’t got any to spare.”
They confronted each other for a moment. Then the woman turned towards the shrubbery.
“ ’Ere, Rog,” she called. A tall, gaunt man emerged from the rhododendrons, tugging a small boy by the hand.