Read Online Turbulence by Giles Foden - Free Book Online Page B

‘Excuse me, but – is your husband here?’
    â€˜He’s always here,’ she said. ‘That was him, digging in the garden.’
    â€˜That was Professor Ryman?’ I was amazed.
    â€˜Yes. He does most of the heavy digging. Though we get Mackellar to scythe the grass. I hope he was pleasant to you on the way up from Blairmore. It’s a pain, our own pier being out of action; usually you would have been able to walk.’
    â€˜Mackellar? Pleasant enough.’
    â€˜He can be a little surly. And as for his wife …’ I was surprised she was so candid.
    The kettle whistled loudly. She turned her attention to making the tea – not a pot, just a mug with a steel diffuser in it – then vanished into an adjoining room.
    She returned with a bowl of broad beans. ‘Hungry? Go on, try them. They’re delicious.’
    I took a couple of beans. They had been boiled and sprinkled with salt and were surprisingly good.
    â€˜We don’t keep sugar in the house, I’m afraid. Or biscuits. Wallace says there is as much glucose in a broad bean as in a spoonful of sugar.’
    I wondered if that was true. It sounded as if it might be, though with so little sugar available at this stage of the war it would have been hard to verify the issue.
    â€˜There now,’ she added, handing me the mug of tea. ‘You drink that up and I’ll ask if he will see you.’ She went out into the garden.
    I sipped my tea, which was a bit too strong, then peeped into the drawing room. The walls were whitewashed, and it was plainly furnished with antique black-oak furniture. Sideboards and dressers and the like: the sort of thing people inherit – though I had received nothing like that. It all stayed in Africa.
    There were also two threadbare armchairs in the Rymans’ drawing room, and a chaise-longue upholstered in pink satin – a rare hint of luxury. The overwhelming impression was one of self-denial, although in one corner of the room there stood a large rocking horse. There were indentations in the wall opposite its head and ears, clearly made by too-enthusiastic usage.
    Apart from the chaise-longue and the rocking horse, the only other softening touch was a piece of embroidery in a wooden frame behind glass. It was the kind of fancy lacework you might see displayed in Madeira or Nantes, or even in Nottingham long ago. I realised it was a child’s christening gown.
    â€˜I’m afraid my husband cannot see you now,’ said Mrs Ryman from behind me. She had returned from the garden without my noticing. There was a little chill in her voice. We both looked at the gown for a moment and she gave a blink. ‘He has some calculations to do once he has finished digging. He doesn’t like unexpected visitors.’ She expelled air from between her lips. ‘Unexpected anything, really.’
    In light of this rebuttal I recalculated my own options, trying at the same time to cover my annoyance. ‘Oh. What a shame. Another time, perhaps?’
    â€˜Sunday lunch,’ she said. ‘Do come. The minister will be there.’
    I shook her hand, and then she said, with a curious smile, ‘I look forward to it.’

7
    The Met Office had been busy in Mackellar’s cot-house. As I approached the building I noticed a green motorcycle leaning against the wall by the door, its handle pressing against lichen on the stone. Inside I found my suitcase, a desk, and about five torpedo-like hydrogen cylinders. There were also a large number of labelled wooden crates, some drums of caustic soda and several new cable points. Electricity had been run up from the road on wooden poles. A stove and sink stood in one corner; in another a door opened to a small bathroom with a red-tiled floor.
    On the desk was a letter from Gordon Whybrow, my immediate notional superior at the main station in Dunoon. Typewritten in a distinctive font, it listed the materials that had been