Crisis by Ken McClure Page B

stand ing in front of him. She was swathed in loose-fitting clothes which disguised her shape and consequently her age; she carried two bundles wrapped in what appeared to be bed covers. A head scarf was sup plemented by a further scarf wrapped round the lower portion of her face. She hooked two fingers over the scarf round her mouth and pulled it down slightly. ‘Have you anything for a cup of tea?’ she mumbled.
    Bannerman took out his wallet and gave her a five pound note.
    ‘Bless you, mister,’ said the woman clutching it tightly with gloved fingers which left the tips free.
    ‘You too,’ said Bannerman quietly. He turned to watch her shuffle off and began to see executive stress and strain in a new light. Until that moment he had planned to discuss the morning’s events with Stella before reaching a decision. Now he decided to accede to the MRC’s request.
    Olive Meldrum handed Bannerman an envelope on Thursday evening. It contained, she said, his first-class ticket on the night sleeper to Scotland. Bannerman thanked her, saying that he would see her soon.
    ‘Good luck,’ said Olive. ‘Bring me back a haggis or whatever they call it.’
    ‘I promise,’ smiled Bannerman. He checked his watch and saw that he should be leaving. He wanted to get back to the flat and finish his packing before Stella arrived. They had arranged to have dinner together at a restaurant they both liked and then she would run him to the station in time for the train. He added a few last-minute notes to the file that he had prepared for Nigel Leeman who would take over in his absence. They had already had a meeting that morning but several things had occurred to him during the course of the afternoon that he thought Leeman should know about. He closed the file with a paper-clip, wrote Leeman’s name on it and left it on Olive’s desk. With a last look round, he switched off the light and closed the door.
    ‘Why don’t you have another brandy,’ said Stella. ‘You’re not driving.’
    ‘You’ve talked me into it,’ smiled Bannerman, summoning the waiter.
    This has all happened so fast I’m not sure what to say,’ said Stella. ‘Are you absolutely sure you’re doing the right thing in taking this MRC thing on?’
    ‘No,’ admitted Bannerman, ‘but it’s important to find out the truth.’
    ‘Send me a postcard?’
    ‘Of course,’ smiled Bannerman.
    ‘And if you have time to pursue this crazy notion of heading off into the Scottish mountains in winter these may help.’ Stella reached into her bag. ‘I know you don’t need lectures about the right equipment and all that, but I got you a little present.’ She brought out a small package which she handed to Bannerman.
    Bannerman opened it and pulled out a pair of gloves. ‘Goretex gloves!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ll be the best dressed climber on the mountain.’
    ‘In January, you’ll be the only climber on the mountain,’ retorted Stella.
    Thank you, that was a kind thought,’ said Bannerman.
    ‘I think we’d better go if we’ve to get you on that train,’ said Stella.
    They arrived at the station with ten minutes to spare. Bannerman insisted that they say their good byes there and then, knowing that neither of them liked hanging around draughty platforms in order to wave at a moving train. He watched Stella’s back until she turned round at the exit, then he waved and walked through the barrier to board the train.
    Bannerman woke at six. The train was crossing a particularly intricate piece of track, and the change from regular sound patterns to a series of irregular clacks and jolts had disturbed him. He opened the blind and looked out at a misty, grey morning with dampness clinging to the trees and fences bordering the track. Maybe a holiday in the sun wouldn’t have been such a bad idea after all, he thought, but then he stamped on the heresy and got back into his bunk. He propped himself up so that he could catch occasional glimpses of the