rest from maths and geography.’
‘And she still finds time to do her own work. I do admire her,’ added Eveline. ‘I don’t know how she has the energy. And with you working such odd hours. Away, here and there. All over the place.’
‘Well, that gives her more time, doesn’t it?’ said McGovern drily, aware too late that it sounded ungracious, but the whole conversation felt awkward and he was too tired and preoccupied to try to be charming. If only Lily’s arty friends could accept him as he was, as normal, but they seemed to view policemen as an exotic species, slightly alarming and at the same time a bit comical.
‘We’d better be off, I think,’ said Eveline. ‘Jack wants to relax, don’t you?’
‘No – please,’ he protested. But he never felt at ease with the couple, especially Eveline, a dark, thin woman, who advertised her artistic identity by wearing colourful peasant skirts, black polo-neck sweaters and gay peasant scarves. Her husband dressed to match in his black shirts and red ties. McGovern told himself they were perfectly pleasant and friendly, but he was beginning to fear they were drawing his wife away from him and into their world of suburban bohemia, a world he hadn’t expected to find in this far south-east corner of greater London. He tried not to dislike the self-conscious way they paraded their unconventional credentials, setting themselves against the conservatism of their neighbours and railing against ‘keeping up with the Joneses’. Mike was fond of expressing supposedly shocking opinions, with the follow-up: ‘It’s the anarchist in me, you know.’ But he wasn’t an anarchist, McGovern thought, irritated. He held a perfectly ordinary middle-class job as a teacher at an art college. He was state-employed; effectively he was a bureaucrat.
‘Please stay,’ said McGovern politely. ‘I’ve had a rather busy day, that’s all. You’ll forgive me if I don’t bore you with the details.’
But they left. ‘We’ll see ourselves out,’ they shouted from the hall.
Lily brought in the new pot of tea. ‘I hope you didn’t frighten them away.’
He leaned back in the big, old-fashioned armchair, soothed by the familiarity of the room and its objects, assembled gradually, mostly by Lily, over the four years they’d lived here, an eclectic mixture of the exotic and the banal: the odd bits of Victorian china, the soapstone Ganesh, the framed photographs she’d taken in Scotland, the old, velvet-covered sofa and the oriental screen. But Mike and Eveline had left a little ripple of disturbance in their wake and as McGovern sipped the tea his wife had poured, he felt for a moment lonely and ill at ease.
He knew he should have encouraged Lily to talk about the proposed art exhibition, but he was too worried about his dubious assignment in Oxford. ‘I’m to go to Oxford next week. Have a look at the Hungarian refugees.’
‘The poor things.’
‘At least, that was what it was supposed to be about. But now it turns out it’s more about some suspect professor. One of their own, or used to be – only it seems they’ve turned against him. He was a close friend of Kingdom; he blamed me for what happened.’
‘Oh … That’s not good.’ She said no more, when he’d been hoping for her most intense sympathy. Now he felt she wasn’t really listening.
‘It’s bloody difficult. Nigh on impossible situation, to be honest.’
‘Oh dear.’ She had folded her legs under her on the sofa and looked up at him, softly smiling as he turned up and down the little room.
She wasn’t taking it seriously enough, but he suppressed his resentment and continued: ‘The new Super wants me to keep an eye on CID as well.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Things have got lax. He seems to think if I cultivate them, which means spend time drinking with them, I’ll pick up information about what’s going on, their wee schemes. That’s not my idea of what I should be doing.
‘And she still finds time to do her own work. I do admire her,’ added Eveline. ‘I don’t know how she has the energy. And with you working such odd hours. Away, here and there. All over the place.’
‘Well, that gives her more time, doesn’t it?’ said McGovern drily, aware too late that it sounded ungracious, but the whole conversation felt awkward and he was too tired and preoccupied to try to be charming. If only Lily’s arty friends could accept him as he was, as normal, but they seemed to view policemen as an exotic species, slightly alarming and at the same time a bit comical.
‘We’d better be off, I think,’ said Eveline. ‘Jack wants to relax, don’t you?’
‘No – please,’ he protested. But he never felt at ease with the couple, especially Eveline, a dark, thin woman, who advertised her artistic identity by wearing colourful peasant skirts, black polo-neck sweaters and gay peasant scarves. Her husband dressed to match in his black shirts and red ties. McGovern told himself they were perfectly pleasant and friendly, but he was beginning to fear they were drawing his wife away from him and into their world of suburban bohemia, a world he hadn’t expected to find in this far south-east corner of greater London. He tried not to dislike the self-conscious way they paraded their unconventional credentials, setting themselves against the conservatism of their neighbours and railing against ‘keeping up with the Joneses’. Mike was fond of expressing supposedly shocking opinions, with the follow-up: ‘It’s the anarchist in me, you know.’ But he wasn’t an anarchist, McGovern thought, irritated. He held a perfectly ordinary middle-class job as a teacher at an art college. He was state-employed; effectively he was a bureaucrat.
‘Please stay,’ said McGovern politely. ‘I’ve had a rather busy day, that’s all. You’ll forgive me if I don’t bore you with the details.’
But they left. ‘We’ll see ourselves out,’ they shouted from the hall.
Lily brought in the new pot of tea. ‘I hope you didn’t frighten them away.’
He leaned back in the big, old-fashioned armchair, soothed by the familiarity of the room and its objects, assembled gradually, mostly by Lily, over the four years they’d lived here, an eclectic mixture of the exotic and the banal: the odd bits of Victorian china, the soapstone Ganesh, the framed photographs she’d taken in Scotland, the old, velvet-covered sofa and the oriental screen. But Mike and Eveline had left a little ripple of disturbance in their wake and as McGovern sipped the tea his wife had poured, he felt for a moment lonely and ill at ease.
He knew he should have encouraged Lily to talk about the proposed art exhibition, but he was too worried about his dubious assignment in Oxford. ‘I’m to go to Oxford next week. Have a look at the Hungarian refugees.’
‘The poor things.’
‘At least, that was what it was supposed to be about. But now it turns out it’s more about some suspect professor. One of their own, or used to be – only it seems they’ve turned against him. He was a close friend of Kingdom; he blamed me for what happened.’
‘Oh … That’s not good.’ She said no more, when he’d been hoping for her most intense sympathy. Now he felt she wasn’t really listening.
‘It’s bloody difficult. Nigh on impossible situation, to be honest.’
‘Oh dear.’ She had folded her legs under her on the sofa and looked up at him, softly smiling as he turned up and down the little room.
She wasn’t taking it seriously enough, but he suppressed his resentment and continued: ‘The new Super wants me to keep an eye on CID as well.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Things have got lax. He seems to think if I cultivate them, which means spend time drinking with them, I’ll pick up information about what’s going on, their wee schemes. That’s not my idea of what I should be doing.
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