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-
A face like wet grey cloth pressed itself almost into hers. All curiosity over a mouth gathered in the ugliness of contempt, it reduced her to one of the women who were despised for blabbering their memories and fears to the indifferent street. Then she saw there were other watchers, three walking youths, the wind pulling at their hair and thin jackets, watching her while she gaped at the blank sky, possessing her with their eyes, her weakness, her folly.
As if he had come out of a poster of the sun, the man stepped from the doorway beside the travel agents.
'It's my impression you were supposed to be here before this,' he said. 'It's all right though. I can see you're not well. We'll go back to my place.’
The dry branches rattled and she was more afraid than ever, until she remembered a voice promising her that nothing was certain.
Not even the coming of pain.
Chapter 5
Rain during the night had removed the last of the snow from the fields and on the Wednesday morning the sky was as high and blue and shiny as if it had been polished for the occasion.
'You are actually coming,' Maitland said. 'Not that you haven't a perfect right to –'
Perhaps she had taken so little to do with the work of the Committee because her entitlement had nothing to do with what she could bring to it, but only with being her father's daughter. The mild ironical thought occurred to her that if men had the same scruple half the boardrooms in the country would be empty. But, of course, there had been Maitland; so, anyway, she had not been needed.
She