“But,” she went on, “I think it would bring the issue of money to the foreground and possibly damage our relationship, so I’d be against it on those grounds.”
“I agree with Larry up to a point. It’s not much to ask. But on this occasion, I’m going to trust Jean’s judgment.”
“Thank you,” said Jean.
“What about the medics? Are they sound?” Larry asked.
“They are already operating under a code of patient confidentiality,” Jean assured him. “They know that eventually the research will be theirs to publish and own if it has any scientific value. And unlike us, they don’t expect everything to be done by yesterday.”
“Suffice to say that in their cautious, academic way they are intrigued,” said Roy.
“So they ought to be,” said Bill. “It’s a hell of a story.”
“All credit to Jean,” said Larry, and there was some appreciative thumping on the table, which she hushed with a raised hand.
“We’re not there yet, folks.”
“While we’re showing appreciation,” said Roy, “honorable mention also to the new tone of Pam’s Piece.”
“Why, what’s happened to it?” Bill wanted to know.
“It’s warmer, more reflective,” said Roy.
“As you’d know if you ever actually read the paper,” said Jean to general laughter.
He was lazy, she thought. Cut corners and did the absolute minimum, but he was always affable, quick to put his hand in his wallet, and for that reason you couldn’t dislike him.
Later that afternoon he wandered over to her desk, where she was at work on a new Pam’s Piece entitled “The Unofficial Aunt.”
“Me and the lads are going over to the Black Horse for a quick one after work if you’re interested. It’s young Tony’s birthday.”
Young Tony was the new photographer. Jean had spoken to him only recently about taking some pictures of Gretchen and Margaret. He was only twenty-five or so and bounced as he walked as though in sprung shoes. （Old Tony was one of the subs. An alcoholic, he never went to the pub.）
“I know you generally like to get home, but I thought I’d ask.”
“Sorry,” said Jean. “It’s my mother. But thanks for asking.”
It was even less possible now: all opportunities for recreational absences had to be carefully preserved for the Tilburys.
15
Jean was up a stepladder in the front room, re-hanging the curtains, when she saw Mrs. Melsom approaching the house. It was one of those jobs that should have been done in spring but was somehow always neglected until late summer. The red damask drapes, heavy with dust, had been hung over the washing line and shaken and brushed before being left to convalesce in the fresh air for a few hours to rid them of their stale smell.
“That tiresome woman,” her mother said, looking up from her letter writing. “What does she want?”
“Why do you say that?” Jean asked, hopping down from the ladder. “She’s perfectly nice.”
Tiresome or not, she was Jean’s best chance of achieving a few hours of freedom at weekends, if only her mother would be more agreeable. Since that first visit, Jean had tried to cultivate Mrs. Melsom’s acquaintance on her mother’s behalf by calling round with a bag of runner beans from the garden, on the pretext that they had a glut.
“It was so kind of you to come and sit with her; Mother enjoyed it so much,” she had said, hoping to prompt a repeat offer.
She didn’t realize that her mother had already—so soon—taken a dislike to the poor woman, but it was entirely predictable. Even before she had made herself a recluse, she had a history of taking up new friends and then discarding them, usually over some imagined slight. Her fallings-out were swift and permanent; the casualties numerous. The rift with the church knitters was only one example.
Mrs. Melsom stood on the doorstep wearing a faded summer dress and a crushed straw hat, holding a Pyrex bowl of raspberries.
“I brought these for your mother,” she said. “She mentioned how much she likes them and ours have done well. We’ve more than we can eat.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” said Jean, accepting the bowl. “Won’t you come in?”
“Who is it?” came her mother’s fluting voice.
Jean glared at her mother over Mrs. Melsom’s straw-hatted head as she showed the visitor into the front room.
“Look, Mother,” she said, holding out the raspberries for her inspection as though they were an offering to pacify a peevish deity. “Isn’t that kind?”