Authors: Frederic Lindsay
'I'll
read
it –
read
them
all.’
'I
can
give
you
the
minutes
of
the
meeting
before
the
last
one.
Would
you
want
those?'
'No
–
please.’
Mrs
Stewart
who
had
sketched
an
intention
of
getting
up
again
settled
back.
'The
Professor
has
them
all,
of
course.
If
there
was
anything.’
'I
shouldn't
have
time.
These
will
keep
me
busy.’
They
sipped
coffee
and
made
some
kind
of
conversation.
When
there
was
no
more
to
say,
or
rather
when
the
effort
to
fill
that
lack
became
too
great,
they
ended
it.
Mrs
Stewart
walked
her
to
the
head
of
the
stairs.
Halfway
down
the
flight,
Lucy
turned
back.
In
the corridor
of
the
Trust
suite,
she
listened
at
the
secretary's
door
for
voices
or
laughter.
There
was
the
sound
of
a
phone
ringing
and
stopping
almost
at
once
as
if
it
had
been
lifted.
With
a
light
hasty
step,
she
went
back
to
the
first
door
and
not
giving
herself
time
to
think
opened
it
and
went
inside.
The
girl
was
tidying
the
bundles
of
papers
set
out
on
the
long
table.
She
did
not
seem
surprised
to
see
Lucy.
'Is
it
in
here
the
meeting
is
to
be
held?
Of
the
Committee,
I
mean.’
The
girl
cross-hatched
one
bundle
on
to
another.
'Yes.
But
all
of
this
stuff
will
be
cleared
away
by
then.’
'We'll
sit
at
this
table?'
The
girl
didn't
say
anything,
perhaps
since
the
answer
was
obvious.
'Are
there
enough
chairs?'
'We
bring
them
in
from
next
door,'
the
girl
said,
smiling
as
if
the
question
amused
her.
Methodically
she
went
on
arranging
the
bundles.
'I'm
interrupting.’
'This
is
the
old
leaflet –
telling
about
the
work
the
Trust
does.
Soon,
though,
we're
going
to
have
a
campaign
to
coincide
with
Christmas.
They
haven't –
we
haven't
done
it
before
but
it
seems
worth
trying.
Get
in
touch
with
social
clubs
in
factories
and
offices,
places
like
that.
Part
of
the
difficulty
will
be
in
getting
them
targeted
–
to
the
right
people
that
is.
I've
been
phoning
a
sample
finding
which
person
would
be
most
likely
to
help.’
She
said
all
this
pleasantly
but
with
her
attention
on
what
she
was
doing,
politely
abstracted,
terribly
busy.
Now
she
laughed.
'Luckily
part
of
the
phone
bill
gets
paid
for
us.
Just
as
well!'
It
seemed
strange
to
Lucy
that
this
girl
should
be
explaining
the
work
of
the
Trust
to
her.
'My
grandfather – I
mean,
my
father –
it
was
his
friend
…
'
She
trailed
off.
'I
know.
Rintoul.
I
mean,
that's
you,
isn't
it?'
No
,
Lucy
wanted
to
say,
not just Rintoul. Ure. I'm Professor Ure's wife.
But
that
might
have
made
the
girl
smile
again.
Instead,
she
asked,
'Have
you
worked
here
for
very
long?'
'Not
really.’
'You
speak
so
knowledgeably.’
'I'm
an
enthusiast,'
the
girl
said.
'It's
Miss
Lindgren,
isn't
it?
You
are
Miss
Lindgren?'
Her
own
question
took
her
by
surprise.
She
had
not
intended
to
ask.
'I
didn't
like
to
remind
you,'
Miss
Lindgren
said.
'We met
at
the
station.
Professor
Ure
introduced
us.’
'My
husband.’
'Yes
.’
'I
had
no
idea
you
were
with
the
Trust.
Didn't
you
say
you
were
a
student?
It's
not
vacation
time.’
Premonitions of
pain
stirred
in
her
head
and
she
touched
her
hand
to
the
place,
and
then
realising
what
she
was
doing
snatched
it
away
as
if
it
was
a
confession
of
weakness.
The
girl
watched
her
interestedly.
'Sorting
out
letters.
Surely
this
can't
be
much
of
a
job.
Couldn't
you
find
something
better?'
'The
thing
is,
I
identify,'
Sophie
Lindgren
said.
'I
really like
to
get
involved.
I
couldn't
bear
a
job
that
was
just
a
job.’
Outside,
the
grey
afternoon
dazzled
her
with
its
light.
She
stumbled
blindly
forward
until
a
hard
edge
of
concrete
struck
her
across
the
thighs.
Leaning
for
support,
she
ground
her
knuckles
against
her
forehead.
The
warning
signs
told
her
that
soon
she
would
be
in
pain.
The
pain
would
come.
Beer
cans
and
cigarette
packets
littered
the
frozen
earth
in
the
concrete
tub,
and
a
shrub
shook
its
sticks
in
the
icy
wind.
If
the
lid
of
the
sky
rolled
back
hands
would
reach
down
for
her.
Fingers
like
claws,
probes,
levers
to
open-