disappeared.
‘There must be a good reason for it,’ said George. ‘You don’t suspect Guy of doing her in, do you? Don’t go to the police, though, Justin, at least not yet. They’re no good at these racial things. Ask someone who might know. There’s a very nice Iraqi works here in the pub of an evening, calls himself Akhram. He worked with me for a spell. Akhram should know something about her. Maybe he met her. It wouldn’t be surprising – this is supposed to be a village, isn’t it?’
When it came to suppertime, Justin tried to assemble something edible to detain Maude, to whom he was determined to lecture. There was almost nothing worth eating in their pantry. He turned over a can of sardines, on the bottom of which was stamped the legend, Best Before June 1999. He replaced it on the shelf. A quiche with cheese and tomato needed only twenty minutes to warm up. The microwave had not been used since his wife died, as far as he knew. He popped the quiche into the gas oven at Mark 5. Two tomatoes looked edible. The last five inches of a cucumber had to be thrown into the swing bin. He spread two slices of a ‘seeded batch’ with a margarine named on the lid as Bertolli with the additional information that Bertolli was ‘The New Name for Olivio, with pure Bertolli oil’. Accompanying it, he put a jar of Frank Cooper’s Fine Cut Orange Marmalade on the table. He emptied the dusty contents of a sachet of Batchelors’ Oxtail Soup into a mug, pouring over it boiled water from the electric kettle, adding a generous dash of the sherry he had recently claimed to hate. He switched off the television set, which sat on the top of the extinct microwave. A man and a woman were collecting items from a house to put into an auction sale. They hoped to raise nine hundred pounds, so that the couple could take their paralysed daughter to Disneyland in Paris. As Justin plunged them into darkness, they had just found a nineteenth-century horse whip in a back bedroom.
When Justin bought No. 29, Clemenceau, the house was in a poor way. He had had every inch of electric wiring and every inch of plumbing pulled out of the house and new wiring and new pipes installed. He had directed George Ross to run the water supply from the mains through a water meter, and was glad now that he had had the forethought to do so. Janet had not been feeling well even then. The bell on the timer pinged as Maude appeared. She had assumed a silken dressing-gown. Justin struggled to get up from his chair and went to collect the quiche from the oven. As he served Maude, Justin said, ‘Now, dear mother-in-law, I fear I must put a case to you and ask you to be patient.’
‘I’m always patient, dear son-in-law,’ she replied, blinking at him, ‘but let me just say that this tomato has passed its sell-by date.’
‘Okay. That’s not important.’ He waved it away with a gesture. ‘Maude, the world is in a terrible state. It always has been, but these days we are better informed of that state. Over-population and their – our – usages are causing a potentially calamitous global heating. However, I do see at least two hopeful elements at work. The European Union is one of them. For centuries, European nations soaked every kilometre of land with blood and corpses, for dynastic, territorial and particularly religious reasons. Now, instead, we settle arguments by sitting round a table and arguing. It is a magnificent social experiment. The second hopeful element I see is the way in which women, having won the right to vote and thus to be included in our political system, have to a great extent been able to make all kinds of remarkable contributions to our—’
Her eyes had lit upon the booklet Justin had just acquired. ‘This looks interesting, Justin.’
‘It contains paintings by Heath Robertson. Did you hear a word I said?’
‘Oh, really, Justin, you would try the patience of a donkey. I know all this and on the whole I agree with what you say. Let’s eat this quiche in peace. I’m still recovering from our visit to – what is it? – Righteous House …’
Admittedly, the quiche was not of the best. Or of the hottest.
‘All right. To my main point. The progress I have mentioned applies to the West, not to the Middle East – or to much of the rest of the world, including Africa, but it is the Middle East I want to talk about. There, the religion prevailing is the Muslim religion. Do you doubt that? Do you doubt that women subjected to this religion suffer greatly?’
‘I do think things are getting better there.’
Justin said, ‘Let me tell you a personal tale. I was flying back from New York, where I’d been shooting some documentary footage. Ayatollah Khomeini had just been installed in Iran. You remember they’d kicked out the pro-Western Shah? I flew back to Britain by Iran Airways, thinking I might find a subject on the flight, okay?’
Indulgently, she said, ‘You’ve told me all this before.’
‘I watched the passengers coming aboard. I was the only Westerner. The Iranian men all settled comfortably in the rear seats. Then there was a gap before the front seats, where all the women sat. There was no communication between the two groups. The kids were supposed to sit in the middle. Instead, they ran about in the aisle, shrieking. No one did a thing – no control.’
‘Couldn’t you have complained?’ Maude asked.
‘No. I was the one Englishman on board. Drink was forbidden. But it happened there was an English stewardess aboard, so there was a natural bond between us. She smuggled me a gin – a bottle which had somehow eluded capture when the rest of the booze was offloaded. This young woman was full of hatred and anger. Her Iranian husband had just divorced her. No apology. No explanation. He simply walked round her three times and that was it. Of course she was hurt and furious. She couldn’t wait to get back to the UK, where she hoped never to see an Iranian again.’
Maude, looking down at her plate, sighed deeply. ‘You condemn a whole nation on the strength of this one anecdote?’
‘Maude, dear, perhaps you are getting old and losing your judgement, but scores – hundreds – of woman have now fled these male- and religion-dominated countries because of what they have suffered. Do some research, please. But forget this whole mad idea of becoming a Muslim.’
She dropped her fork and stood up, clutching the side of the table for stability. ‘I have no plans to live in a Muslim country. I just admire their dignity, and I don’t need your perpetual harrying me. You’re as bad as the Muslim men you describe. I was benefit-ing from my relationship with that charming young Om Haldar, and I shall miss her.’ She marched out of the room. He knew from past experience that Maude would not speak to him for two days at least. Justin sighed and poured himself another cup of tea. He took a sip, replaced the cup in its saucer and was at once asleep.
He seemed to be halfway up a steep hill. A goat was following him. He knew the goat. He stopped. The goat stopped. It put its head to one side as if to enquire what was going to happen next. ‘I am looking for a particular flower,’ he said. The goat had a wise and doubtful look, as if it knew Justin was lying. ‘It grows in Egypt,’ he said. The goat shook its head. Not knowing what to say, Justin stood where he was. He woke. He had not had a proper sleep or a proper dream. It worried him. This could be how Alzheimer’s began. He felt the cup. It was cold. He took the tea out to the kitchen and poured it down the sink. He poured himself a glass of wine instead.
On sudden inspiration, Justin dialled his builder’s number. Only the answerphone responded. Justin cut it off and tried the builder’s mobile. His call was not answered. He felt a sudden dread of being alone. If only Kate would come back, dear clear-sighted Kate. Fortunately, Ken rang. He and Marie were going over to Elden House to visit a remarkable elderly lady they thought Justin would like to meet. Would he care to come too? He recognized it was their way of looking after him while Kate was in Egypt. ‘Ken, I’m worried about this young refugee girl. She’s disappeared.’
‘Yes,
