Jemima had only signed up as a bus conductor because she was sweet on one of the drivers. Not a very glorious reason to die—particularly, Grandma Lake had explained, as Jemima had had a husband and a three-month-old baby at the time.
Her death had come on the fourth day of the strike at seven twenty-five in the morning (Grandma Lake had been most particular about the time) somewhere near Chiswick when the driver of Jemima’s bus, a volunteer like Jemima, had taken a wrong turn and attempted to drive under a railway bridge. The bridge had proved too low and most of the top deck of the bus had been sheared off. Fortunately only four people had been on the top deck at the time—an elderly gentleman who had sustained a broken finger; a nanny and a one-year-old child who had both been thrown clear and who had, remarkably, sustained only mild cuts and bruises; and the bus conductor, Jemima, who’d been killed outright.
‘She were the only casualty in the whole strike,’ had been Grandma Lake’s summing up of the tragedy. ‘Lots of accidents and the like. Well, it’s to be expected, all those young men and girls driving about helter-skelter—wonder it wasn’t wholesale carnage. But no, on the whole, it went off remarkably well. Apart from poor Jemmy, of course.’
Charlotte had listened dutifully but henceforth had ensured she was never again alone in the room with Grandma Lake.
Now, nearly a year later, at a little before seven o’clock on Monday evening, it was safe to assume Grandma Lake was downstairs, dozing in front of Capital Tonight , and Dad’s old desk and the gramophone and Mum’s small black typewriter had been consigned to the garage, perhaps forever.
Everything had gone silent in the bathroom. Charlotte held her breath and realised that an elderly woman coming to live with you wasn’t the worst thing that could happen in the world.
CHAPTER SIX
A S JENNIFER WAS HANGING up the phone in her office and bleakly contemplating her career in retail, the Waverley University Graduations and Ceremonies Committee was in session.
This morning the talk was of academic dress.
‘I’m sorry, but I fail to see why Media Studies shouldn’t have the claret hood lined with silk of a lighter shade of claret and edged with gold silk,’ declared Professor Kendall, who was chairing the Academic Dress Sub-Committee meeting in the faculty meeting room. ‘After all, it’s in keeping with the rest of the faculty.’
‘It’s not the claret hood per se,’ replied one of the Media Studies lecturers, a thin, wiry lad of about twelve with a tufty goatee and impossibly skinny jeans. A series of sighs circled the table like a deflated Mexican wave. ‘It’s the lighter claret lining and the gold tassel,’ he explained. ‘We were told we could have malachite green and that we didn’t need a tassel.’
‘You. Have. To. Have. A. Tassel,’ replied Professor Kendall between gritted teeth, and somewhere near the window a pencil snapped.
Charlotte glanced at the clock above Professor Kendall’s head. It was nine forty-five on Wednesday morning. The meeting would have to be over by ten because the heads of department had a Finance Committee meeting at that time. Fifteen minutes.
It was time she said something. Made her mark on the meeting.
She shifted uneasily in her chair, aware that most of the fifteen committee members seated around the oval table had spoken, aware that if she’d just said something right at the very beginning of the meeting, she could relax now and zone out till the meeting ended. As it was, she knew she was in for an uncomfortable time until she could think of something to say.
Tom Pitney, seated beside Professor Kendall, had already given his report on Smalt and Begonia as defined in the British Colour Council Dictionary of Standard Colours , 1951 edition. Having given his report, Tom had taken no further part in the meeting and instead was scribbling timetabling revisions idly on his
Her death had come on the fourth day of the strike at seven twenty-five in the morning (Grandma Lake had been most particular about the time) somewhere near Chiswick when the driver of Jemima’s bus, a volunteer like Jemima, had taken a wrong turn and attempted to drive under a railway bridge. The bridge had proved too low and most of the top deck of the bus had been sheared off. Fortunately only four people had been on the top deck at the time—an elderly gentleman who had sustained a broken finger; a nanny and a one-year-old child who had both been thrown clear and who had, remarkably, sustained only mild cuts and bruises; and the bus conductor, Jemima, who’d been killed outright.
‘She were the only casualty in the whole strike,’ had been Grandma Lake’s summing up of the tragedy. ‘Lots of accidents and the like. Well, it’s to be expected, all those young men and girls driving about helter-skelter—wonder it wasn’t wholesale carnage. But no, on the whole, it went off remarkably well. Apart from poor Jemmy, of course.’
Charlotte had listened dutifully but henceforth had ensured she was never again alone in the room with Grandma Lake.
Now, nearly a year later, at a little before seven o’clock on Monday evening, it was safe to assume Grandma Lake was downstairs, dozing in front of Capital Tonight , and Dad’s old desk and the gramophone and Mum’s small black typewriter had been consigned to the garage, perhaps forever.
Everything had gone silent in the bathroom. Charlotte held her breath and realised that an elderly woman coming to live with you wasn’t the worst thing that could happen in the world.
CHAPTER SIX
A S JENNIFER WAS HANGING up the phone in her office and bleakly contemplating her career in retail, the Waverley University Graduations and Ceremonies Committee was in session.
This morning the talk was of academic dress.
‘I’m sorry, but I fail to see why Media Studies shouldn’t have the claret hood lined with silk of a lighter shade of claret and edged with gold silk,’ declared Professor Kendall, who was chairing the Academic Dress Sub-Committee meeting in the faculty meeting room. ‘After all, it’s in keeping with the rest of the faculty.’
‘It’s not the claret hood per se,’ replied one of the Media Studies lecturers, a thin, wiry lad of about twelve with a tufty goatee and impossibly skinny jeans. A series of sighs circled the table like a deflated Mexican wave. ‘It’s the lighter claret lining and the gold tassel,’ he explained. ‘We were told we could have malachite green and that we didn’t need a tassel.’
‘You. Have. To. Have. A. Tassel,’ replied Professor Kendall between gritted teeth, and somewhere near the window a pencil snapped.
Charlotte glanced at the clock above Professor Kendall’s head. It was nine forty-five on Wednesday morning. The meeting would have to be over by ten because the heads of department had a Finance Committee meeting at that time. Fifteen minutes.
It was time she said something. Made her mark on the meeting.
She shifted uneasily in her chair, aware that most of the fifteen committee members seated around the oval table had spoken, aware that if she’d just said something right at the very beginning of the meeting, she could relax now and zone out till the meeting ended. As it was, she knew she was in for an uncomfortable time until she could think of something to say.
Tom Pitney, seated beside Professor Kendall, had already given his report on Smalt and Begonia as defined in the British Colour Council Dictionary of Standard Colours , 1951 edition. Having given his report, Tom had taken no further part in the meeting and instead was scribbling timetabling revisions idly on his
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