"Where did you get it?"

"I bought it this afternoon. I thought it was time I smartened myself up."

"Well you can get rid of that for a start. And are those flared trousers? Robert, really."

"There's not a single man in Europe who doesn't have slightly flared trousers. You can't buy any other sort in the shops."

She went into the bedroom and found some old corduroy trousers and an inoffensive sweater. Robert pretended to protest when she took control of small aspects of his life, but privately he was pleased. He admired her for knowing about such things and he was flattered that she cared enough about him for it to matter. Properly dressed, he made drinks and stood with his arm round Elizabeth as she set about cooking the food she had brought. This was the time he liked best, when everything was antic.i.p.ation and the evening had not really begun. While they ate he talked about his work and the people he had met in the course of it. Elizabeth urged him on with questions. He feared boring her, but she clearly liked the sardonic way he described the various meetings and dinners he had attended.

They managed to spend an evening and a night of enclosed harmony without discussing the difficult decisions that awaited them. Robert was glad, and Elizabeth too, when she left with a light step in the morning, seemed elated.

On Sat.u.r.day afternoon Francoise telephoned to say she had found twenty more notebooks in the attic, and Elizabeth went down at once to fetch them. She had nothing to do that evening, so she would have a long bath, not bother with dinner, but study the notebooks and see if she could make any headway where Bob had failed.

She lit the fire in the sitting room to warm it up while she was in the bath. She wondered whether some law would prevent the gas board from going on strike. Almost everyone else had at one stage during the winter, lining up to take their turn. If they stopped the gas, would the army take over the supply? She could always go and stay with her mother, who had oil-fired heating, though she would have to take Mrs. Kyriades with her, otherwise she wouldn't last a day in the cold... Elizabeth brought her mind back to the notebooks. She curled up in her dressing gown on the sofa and opened the first one. It had a date, 1915, inside the front cover. They were all dated, she discovered, from 1915 to 1917. The one she had given Bob had been from 1918, she thought. In some of them were lines of English. "Arrived back at Coy HQ at ten. Still no word from Gray about attack." Elizabeth felt a leap of excitement at the sight of the word "Gray." Again she had touched the past. It had stopped being history and had turned into experience. She flicked through the books at random. There seemed to be an almost complete and sequential record, though she noticed that after a long entry on 30 June 1916 there was nothing for two months. Had something happened? She settled her reading gla.s.ses and picked up another notebook. There was a ring at the doorbell.

She went crossly into the hall to answer the intercom. "h.e.l.lo?" she said abruptly.

It cracked and fuzzed. "It's me."

"Who?"

"Stuart, of course. It's freezing."

Elizabeth was dumb. Stuart. G.o.d. She had asked him over.

"Come up. I was just... in the bath. Come on up." She pushed the b.u.t.ton on the intercom and left the door of the flat open as she dashed into the bedroom. She ripped off her gla.s.ses, tore the combs from her hair, and wrapped the dressing gown more modestly about her. She could hear him knocking at the open door. He must have run up the stairs.

She proffered her check. "I'm sorry. I'm running a bit late."

"Hmmm," he said. "I thought I couldn't smell any enticing aromas on the stairs."

"Come in, come in. I'm sorry it's such a mess." The notebooks were open all over the floor; her breakfast coffee cup was still on the table. Short of actually having her clothes hanging in front of the fire to dry she could hardly have made it clearer that she was not expecting anyone.

Stuart appeared not to notice. "I brought you this," he said, handing her a bottle of wine. She peeled off the paper.

"Lovely," she said. "Muscadet. Is that very special? I don't know anything about wine."

"I think you'll find it's pretty good."

"You'll have to excuse me while I get dressed. I'm sorry to be so chaotic. Help yourself to a drink from the side there."

Elizabeth cursed steadily under her breath as she dressed. She pulled on a knee-length navy wool skirt she had just bought, woollen tights, and boots. She thought about the top. She didn't want to look too dowdy, but on the other hand she was going to have to go out into the freezing night to buy some food. She took a turtleneck from the drawer and an old leather jacket from the closet. There was no time for makeup. Stuart would have to take her au naturel. Terrifying thought, she murmured, as she quickly brushed her hair. This was not the kind of thing that Lindsay, who thought her so poised, would ever have imagined happening to her. She quickly fastened a pair of red earrings as she went through to the sitting room.

"Ah, what a transformation. Magnificent. You--"

"Look, I've just realized I forgot to buy any pasta. We're having pasta and I forgot the pasta. Would you believe it? So I'm just going to slip out. Is there anything you'd like while I'm there? Cigarettes? Turn on the television. Have another drink. I won't be a minute."

She managed to get out of the front door before Stuart had a chance to protest. She ran to the supermarket on Praed Street and hastily collected all she would need to make a quick dinner. She had more wine at home if Stuart's bottle was not enough for both of them. It was some red wine Robert had brought; she wasn't sure if Stuart would approve, but her shopping bag already looked suspiciously full.

"Just thought I'd buy a few other things while I was there," she explained to Stuart as she puffed through into the kitchen. She poured herself some gin and started cooking.

"What's this?" said Stuart, standing in the doorway, holding out his hand to her. "It looks like a buckle from a belt."

Elizabeth took it. _"Gott mit uns," _she read from the lettering on it.

"G.o.d with us," Stuart translated. "I found it on the carpet."

"Just something I got in a junk shop," said Elizabeth. It must have fallen out of one of the notebooks, but she didn't want to discuss it.

Once dinner was on the table Elizabeth began to relax. Stuart hadn't seemed to mind the chaos of her arrangements; in fact he had hardly seemed to notice. He was complimentary about the food and took charge of the wine himself, making sure their gla.s.ses stayed full.

"So, tell me all about yourself, Elizabeth Benson," he said, sitting back in his chair.

"I think I already have. This time and last time. Between the two I think I've covered the ground. You tell me some more about your work. You're a marketing consultant, didn't you say?"

"That's right, yes."

"What does it entail?"

"How long is a piece of string?"

"You know what I mean. Do people come to see you and ask how to sell their products? Is that what it is?"

"That's part of it. It's rather more complicated than that."

"Well, go on. Tell me. I'm sure I can follow."

"We are in the skills business. We like to see ourselves as beneficent jailers. We have a set of keys for all occasions. The keys unlock the potential of a business. We have to teach people how to use them, which key fits which lock. But above all we have to teach them how to ask the right questions."

"I see," said Elizabeth, with a slight hesitation. "So you give advice and sales go up and you take a percentage. Is that it?"

"It's more a question of seeing how each part of a business can relate to the other parts. So suppose you're in product development and Bloggs is in sales, then unless you're asking the right questions you may be pulling in different directions. I always say our main aim is to teach people not to need us."

"And how do I know when I don't need you?"

"That's a very good question."

"Is it one of the questions you would have taught me to ask?" Elizabeth felt a twitch at the corner of her mouth, which she tried to quell.

"It's not quite that simple."

"I thought it might not be. Anyway. I thought you were a musician." Stuart ran his hand back through his hair and resettled his gla.s.ses. "I am a musician," he said. "It's just that I don't make a living from it. You don't make a living from being a cook, but you're still a cook, aren't you? Do you follow?"

"I think so. You play the piano very well anyway."

"Thank you."

"I'm afraid it's only ice cream. I meant to make something, but I didn't have time. Is that all right?"

As she made coffee in the kitchen and tried to spoon the frozen ice cream from its carton without snapping the shaft off the spoon, Elizabeth was struck, not for the first time, by the thought that her life was entirely frivolous. It was a rush and slither of trivial crises; of uncertain cash flow, small triumphs, occasional s.e.x, and too many cigarettes; of missed deadlines that turned out not to matter; of arguments, new clothes, bursts of altruism, and sincere resolutions to address the important things. Of all these and the other experiences that made up her life, the most significant aspect was the one suggested by the words "turned out not to matter." Although she was happy enough with what she had become, it was this continued sense of the easy, the inessential nature of what she did, that most irritated her. She thought of Tom Brennan, who had known only life or death, then death in life. In her generation there was no intensity. She took the coffee and the ice cream back into the sitting room. Stuart had put a record on, a Beethoven piano concerto, and was listening to it with closed eyes.

Elizabeth smiled as she put his ice cream down in front of him. She couldn't quite make up her mind about Stuart. She was impressed by his piano playing and flattered by his attention, but some part of her remained unconvinced. They sat on the sofa afterward and he explained to her, still with his eyes closed, how the piece of music was constructed and where, in his view, the soloist was going wrong.

When the record finished Elizabeth started to go and change it, but Stuart caught her by the forearm and pulled her back.

"Sit down, Liz. I have something to ask you."

"Sorry?"

"I want you to listen carefully. I don't know what you'll make of me and I'm not sure it matters too much. I'm going to tell you a story."

As Elizabeth started to interrupt he held up his hand to silence her.

"Once upon a time there was a very attractive girl. She had lots of friends, a very good job, a flat in town, and everyone envied her. Then, as time went on, her friends got married and had babies and this girl became a very attractive woman. But she didn't get married. The older she got, the more she pretended it didn't matter to her, but the more, deep down inside, she longed for children and a husband. Part of the problem was that the more she pretended, the more she frightened men off. Because they, poor little creatures, believed her when she said she was happy."

Elizabeth looked down at the floor. An unhealthy curiosity was fighting the embarra.s.sment that ran in waves up and down her spine. Stuart himself showed no trace of self-consciousness. He looked straight ahead.

"Then one day she met a man who was not frightened at all. He was kind to her and funny and friendly. And when she really thought about it, she knew, deep down, that this was what she had always wanted. And they moved to the country and she had lots of children and they all lived happily ever after." Elizabeth swallowed. "And?"

Stuart turned around to face her. "I'm asking you to marry me. I know it's unorthodox. This is only the third time we've met and I haven't even bothered to seduce you. I'm such a sweet old-fashioned thing. You're a very unusual woman. I think you'll find, if you accept my offer, that I'm an equally unusual man." Elizabeth stood up. She took a cigarette and spluttered as she inhaled it. "It's very... nice of you. I'm flattered by the thought, but I'm afraid you've got the wrong person. I have a boyfriend. I--"

"He's married, isn't he? Let me guess. You see him once a month for hasty s.e.x and a tearful farewell. He says he'll leave his wife, but we all know he won't, don't we? Is that what you want? Is that your future?"

Elizabeth's voice took on a frozen edge. "You shouldn't talk about people you don't know."

Stuart stood up and threw his arms open expansively. "Come on, we're both adults, we both know the score. I'm sorry if I intruded on a private sorrow, but this is a very important matter. I have money. Did I mention that? Or is it the s.e.x thing? Do you want a trial run?"

"I _beg _your pardon?"

"Well at least give me credit for not having seduced you."

"What on earth makes you think you could have?"

Stuart shrugged suggestively. "I'm sorry, Liz. I've gone too far. I'm going to leave you now. Let's say I've planted a seed. You just do me the favour of watering it from time to time. Think about it."

He took his coat from the hook in the hall and came back into the room.

"Thank you for a marvellous evening," he said. "And will you water it, that little seed?"

"I... won't forget. I certainly won't forget."

"Good." He smiled and kissed her on the forehead, then let himself out.

Elizabeth was in a condition of shock for some days. The presumptuousness of what Stuart had said to her felt, in retrospect, like an unwanted physical intimacy; it was as though he had forced himself on her.

She went for long walks in Hyde Park and breathed deeply in the cold January air. She worked till late in the office. She bought, and read, two books about the war her grandfather had fought in. She made resolutions for the New Year. She would smoke less, she would visit Tom Brennan once a fortnight, if he wanted, or, if he didn't, she would visit someone else of his generation. Somehow she would repay the debt; she would complete the circle.

For the first of her New Year visits to Tom Brennan she hoped she might find out some more about her grandfather. She understood enough about Brennan's state of mind not to expect a long recollection, or even an anecdote, but she hoped for some reference at least.

She was wearing fewer clothes this time, knowing what the central heating was like in the dayroom. In view of his complaints about the food, she took Brennan a cake her mother had baked. She was struck as she packed it by how much it was like sending a parcel to a man in the trenches. She took half a bottle of whisky as well; at least that was something he wouldn't have been sent from home. She also, feeling ashamed as she did so, put two mothb.a.l.l.s in her handkerchief, so she could hold it to her face and breathe in camphor rather than the cloying smell of urine. He was in the same place at the window. He put his hand in hers and they sat happily together. Elizabeth asked him what he had been doing in the past few weeks and what he had done in the years before that. His answers bore no relation to her questions. He talked about Mafeking night, he talked about his sister in the blackout and how she had fallen off a ladder. He told her he didn't like the food they gave him.

Occasionally she could tell that a particular question had registered with him, because his eyes showed alarm behind the thick lenses of his spectacles. He would mumble a few words, then either fall silent or resume with one of the stories he knew. Elizabeth began to suspect that she had already heard most of his repertoire. This time she didn't press him on the subject of her grandfather. She had made the first vital connection. If he had anything else to say it would come in time; in fact it was more likely to come out when he became familiar with her visits. She left him with the cake and whisky and said she would be back in two weeks' time. The matron, Mrs. Simpson, pa.s.sed her in the doorway.

"I didn't think we'd see you again," she said. "Any joy?"

"Well... not joy exactly. I don't know if he liked seeing me. But I liked seeing him again. I left him a little parcel. Is that allowed?"

"It depends what's in it."

Elizabeth had a feeling the whisky would be forbidden. She left before she would have to see it being confiscated.

At home that night she did some calculations. It was a task she had been putting off, because she feared the result. With the help of last year's diary she was able to work out when her last period had been. It had definitely been in progress on the sixth of December, because she remembered being late for a lunch that was marked for that day because she had had to make a detour to find a chemist's. It was now January 21st. The last time she had seen Robert was not recorded in her diary, but it had been the week before Christmas. She remembered the decorations in the shops. In fact he had come over on his holidays a day early, which was how he had managed to squeeze her in. She had had to go to work the following day, so it must have been a weekday. She narrowed it down to the 21st or the 22nd. Either day was halfway through the cycle, which, if she remembered rightly, was the dangerous time. She tried to remember what precautions she had taken. She had been on the pill for four years continuously and her doctor had advised her to stop taking it. They had then used a variety of means. Both of them were careful, Robert neurotically so in her opinion.

The next morning she bought a pregnancy testing kit from the chemist's in Craven Road. It was a flat, rectangular piece of plastic with two windows. She took it to the bathroom, then, five minutes later, as instructed, looked at the windows. The blue line across each was firm and a.s.sertive. It was not just positive, it was bursting with life.

She pa.s.sed a day in which her feelings oscillated between joy and despair. Twice she began to tell Irene her secret and twice discretion made her change the subject. She went out for lunch on her own and found her eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears as she ate. Already she felt an absurd pa.s.sion for the invisible thing inside her. In the evening she telephoned Robert. There was no reply, but she left a message on his recently acquired answering machine telling him to ring She ran a bath and slid beneath the water. She gazed at her lower belly and wondered what microscopic events were taking place there. She was frightened of the physical changes and worried about what people would say; but much more than anxiety she felt exhilaration. Her telephone rang and she sprang from the bath and went dripping through to answer it.

It was Bob.

"I've cracked it," he said. "I'm sorry it's taken me such a long time. It was perfectly straightforward, really, once I'd figured out how the old codger's mind worked. Greek letters, French language, and a bit of private code. Elementary, my dear Watson. I can't swear I've got every name right, of course. I've marked the odd query. But it all seems to add up."

When she had overcome her disappointment that it was not Robert, Elizabeth said, "That's marvellous, Bob. Thank you very much. When can I pick it up?"

"Come over at the weekend if you like. I put a couple of pages in the post this morning. I just did the last two in the book because they were the ones I'd worked on first. They should be with you in the morning if the Post Office isn't on strike as well. You never know, do you?"

"No. Quite. Well, I'll look forward to getting those tomorrow."

"Yes," said Bob. "They're a bit gloomy, you know. Pour yourself a drink first."

"You know me, Bob. And thanks again."

Robert didn't ring till after midnight, when Elizabeth was asleep. She told him straight away that she was going to have a baby. She was too sleepy to break the news gently, as she had intended. "I won't tell anyone who the father is. These things can be kept secret," she said.

Robert was shocked.

"You could sound a bit happier about it," she said.

"Give me time," he said. "I'm happy for you, and in time I'll be happy for myself and the child. Just give me time to get used to it."

"I will," said Elizabeth. "I love you."

The next day was a Sat.u.r.day and in the morning there was a package from Bob. Elizabeth put it aside till after breakfast, then opened it carefully with a knife. Bob had reused a brown envelope from an old catalogue or circular, sticking a white label with her name and address over his own.

Inside were two large sheets of thin, crackling white paper. Elizabeth was very excited. From the moment she saw the black ink of Bob's careful script, she knew that she had found what she wanted.