Downing Street and Horse Guards Parade on its way up Whitehall towards Trafalgar Square .
Big Ben is the name popularly given to the Gothic clock tower which stands 316 ft high at the north side of the Houses of Parliament, although that is properly the name of the biggest bell in the tower that chimes the Westminster chimes on the hour, every hour. The bell weighs 13½ tons, cast in the Whitechapel Bell Foundry in 1858. Some sources say the bell was named after Sir Benjamin Hall who commissioned the building. Others, perhaps given its East End provenance, suggest the bell was named after boxing champion Big Ben Caul who went sixty rounds unbeaten.
Each of the four clock faces are 22½ ft in diameter. The individual numerals are nearly two ft tall. The minute hands are 14 ft long. Each one will have traced an arc of more than five feet in the five minutes since Mrs Fitzgerald first saw Jeremy making his way towards the clock tower.
Venetia Latimer looks at the kitchen clock. 11.30 p.m. She is worried about her husband. She has left him sitting in the next room, his elbows propped on the worn arms of his chair, his head held in his hands as if it has grown too heavy to be supported by his neck. What use are you? she thinks, not unkindly. He’s worrying about his job, she can tell. His new boss is giving him a hard time.
There is no point any longer in being a businessman, a technician or a tradesman, if you are a man. Women can learn the skills and perform those jobs as well as any man, or better, apparently, in the case of her husband’s new boss.
A man who joins a large company is provided with a pension plan, a swipe card to get in through the front door and a bushel so he can hide his light under it. It certainly isn’t the kind of work Mrs Latimer would have chosen for her son. She would rather he was a showman – a circus performer or an actor. Venetia suspects that men will be valued in the future only so long as they are frivolous; exotically and notably different from women.
Venetia puts a cup of milk in a large pan and boils it very rapidly, cutting the flame under it as it swells suddenly to twice its volume. She whisks two heaped teaspoons of Cadbury’s milk chocolate and a tablespoon of brandy into the frothy milk, moves the pan, re-lights the flame and holds a marshmallow over the flame on the end of a fork until it forms a blistered skin on the point of bursting and sputtering its liquefied centre. She stirs the marshmallow into the hot chocolate, pours it into his favourite cup, sprinkles some finely chopped almonds on the top and walks next door to where her husband still sits. The brandy has curdled the milk, slightly.
He looks so gloomy that she can’t think of any words that will make him feel better. She takes his hand, so he will take comfort from her presence. At times like these a very small part of Venetia is sorry she disapproves of his career in the City so strongly because it makes it so difficult to discuss things with him. She has a horror of mentioning his unhappiness in case he starts talking about business issues and bores her.
‘Stephen, I’ve brought you a cup of hot chocolate.’ Venetia hopes the drink will cheer him up. She’s really very fond of him. She has something she needs to ask him.
‘Stephen, how would I go about getting a private detective’s licence revoked?’
‘A licence? I don’t know how it works. If it’s anything like a trading licence in the City then exposing the detective for something like embezzlement or drug dealing would do it. Can you try to turn up any kind of irregularity in his behaviour or in his business accounts? That would probably get a suspension, at least. Shall I tell you how it works in the City?’
‘No. That’s quite enough. You’ve been very helpful. Thank you.’
Chapter Eleven ~ Colours
Roy watches Sylvia harvesting winter firewood from yesterday’s pruning in the garden. Wearing gloves, she rubs one hand up and down
Big Ben is the name popularly given to the Gothic clock tower which stands 316 ft high at the north side of the Houses of Parliament, although that is properly the name of the biggest bell in the tower that chimes the Westminster chimes on the hour, every hour. The bell weighs 13½ tons, cast in the Whitechapel Bell Foundry in 1858. Some sources say the bell was named after Sir Benjamin Hall who commissioned the building. Others, perhaps given its East End provenance, suggest the bell was named after boxing champion Big Ben Caul who went sixty rounds unbeaten.
Each of the four clock faces are 22½ ft in diameter. The individual numerals are nearly two ft tall. The minute hands are 14 ft long. Each one will have traced an arc of more than five feet in the five minutes since Mrs Fitzgerald first saw Jeremy making his way towards the clock tower.
Venetia Latimer looks at the kitchen clock. 11.30 p.m. She is worried about her husband. She has left him sitting in the next room, his elbows propped on the worn arms of his chair, his head held in his hands as if it has grown too heavy to be supported by his neck. What use are you? she thinks, not unkindly. He’s worrying about his job, she can tell. His new boss is giving him a hard time.
There is no point any longer in being a businessman, a technician or a tradesman, if you are a man. Women can learn the skills and perform those jobs as well as any man, or better, apparently, in the case of her husband’s new boss.
A man who joins a large company is provided with a pension plan, a swipe card to get in through the front door and a bushel so he can hide his light under it. It certainly isn’t the kind of work Mrs Latimer would have chosen for her son. She would rather he was a showman – a circus performer or an actor. Venetia suspects that men will be valued in the future only so long as they are frivolous; exotically and notably different from women.
Venetia puts a cup of milk in a large pan and boils it very rapidly, cutting the flame under it as it swells suddenly to twice its volume. She whisks two heaped teaspoons of Cadbury’s milk chocolate and a tablespoon of brandy into the frothy milk, moves the pan, re-lights the flame and holds a marshmallow over the flame on the end of a fork until it forms a blistered skin on the point of bursting and sputtering its liquefied centre. She stirs the marshmallow into the hot chocolate, pours it into his favourite cup, sprinkles some finely chopped almonds on the top and walks next door to where her husband still sits. The brandy has curdled the milk, slightly.
He looks so gloomy that she can’t think of any words that will make him feel better. She takes his hand, so he will take comfort from her presence. At times like these a very small part of Venetia is sorry she disapproves of his career in the City so strongly because it makes it so difficult to discuss things with him. She has a horror of mentioning his unhappiness in case he starts talking about business issues and bores her.
‘Stephen, I’ve brought you a cup of hot chocolate.’ Venetia hopes the drink will cheer him up. She’s really very fond of him. She has something she needs to ask him.
‘Stephen, how would I go about getting a private detective’s licence revoked?’
‘A licence? I don’t know how it works. If it’s anything like a trading licence in the City then exposing the detective for something like embezzlement or drug dealing would do it. Can you try to turn up any kind of irregularity in his behaviour or in his business accounts? That would probably get a suspension, at least. Shall I tell you how it works in the City?’
‘No. That’s quite enough. You’ve been very helpful. Thank you.’
Chapter Eleven ~ Colours
Roy watches Sylvia harvesting winter firewood from yesterday’s pruning in the garden. Wearing gloves, she rubs one hand up and down
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