answered. "Coronation month."
"Ah, yes," Greg murmured. "Dancing in the dank dark."
"Well, they may make an exception," Heather said, somewhat daunted by Greg's wry tone. "How?"
"By letting the power stay on. So people round the country can all see it."
"Yes," Marjorie said, "London won't need extra power to put it on.
Come to think of it, a Coronation is quite ecological."
"You intend 'ecological' to mean 'virtuous,' don't you?" Greg asked.
"We-e-ell." Marjorie drew out the word while she tried to judge just what Greg meant. "I know that's a misuse of the word, but really, at a Coronation they always use horse-drawn coaches and the Abbey will be lit by candles. And they don't need any heat there with all the peers in their furred robes."
"Yes, I love to see them," Jan said. "So colorful."
"Quite public-minded, too, the peers." Jame stated judiciously. "They've been very helpful to the government. Getting legislation through speedily and so on."
"Oh, yes." Greg smiled. "They'll do anything for the worker, except become one."
To a chorus of agreeing chuckles, Heather added, "Well, yes, anyone would rather talk than work. The peers just fill the air with their speeches."
"And from what I've seen, vice versa," Greg responded.
James' face stiffened. Marjorie suddenly remembered that he had an influential relative in the House of Lords. She stood quickly and murmured something about fetching the chicken. As she left, Markham started a sentence about the American view of the opposition party and James' thin-lipped mouth relaxed. One end of the table focused on Greg's political stilettos and at the other James asked, "It still seems strange saying 'the King' after a whole lifetime of 'the Queen,' doesn't it?"
Marjorie returned with a large casserole of chicken in cream sauce with spring vegetables and a rice pilaff. Appreciative murmurs greeted the wash of steamy aroma that rose when she lifted the lid. As she served the chicken, the conversation fragmented, James and Greg talking about the labor laws, the others talking of the forthcoming Coronation. Queen Elizabeth had abdicated in favor of her eldest son the previous Christmas and he had chosen to be crowned on his fiftieth birthday, in November.
John had gone to get more wine, a home-made hock this time.
"I think it's a terrible waste of money," Heather declared. "There are so many better things we could spend the money on than a Coronation. What about cancer for instance? The statistics are horrifying. One in four, is it now?" She abruptly fell silent.
Marjorie knew the cause, and yet it seemed pointless to smooth over it.
She leaned forward. "How is your mother?"
Heather did not hesitate to take up the topic; Marjorie realized she needed to talk about it. "Mummy's doing fine, all things considered. I mean, she's deteriorating, of course, but she really seems to have accepted it. She was dreadfully afraid of being doped up at the end, you know."
"She's not going to be?" John asked.
"No, the doctors say not. There is this new electronic anaesthetic thing."
"They simply tap into the superficial brain centers," James added. "It blocks the perception of pain. Much less risky than chemical anaesthetics."
"Less addictive, too, I suppose?" Greg asked.
Heather blinked. "I hadn't thought of that. Could you get addicted?"
"Maybe not, if they simply turn off the pain," Jan said. "But that if they find a way to stimulate the pleasure centers as well?"
"They already have," Greg murmured.
"Really?" Marjorie said. "Are they using that, too?"
"They don't dare." James spoke with an air of finality.
"Well, in any case," Heather continued, "it's all quite beside the point for Mummy. The doctors haven't a clue how to stop the cancer she has."
Before interest could center on details of the prognosis, Marjorie steered talk to other subjects.
When the telephone rang, John answered. A reedy voice identified itself as Peterson.
"I wanted to let you know before I packed
"Ah, yes," Greg murmured. "Dancing in the dank dark."
"Well, they may make an exception," Heather said, somewhat daunted by Greg's wry tone. "How?"
"By letting the power stay on. So people round the country can all see it."
"Yes," Marjorie said, "London won't need extra power to put it on.
Come to think of it, a Coronation is quite ecological."
"You intend 'ecological' to mean 'virtuous,' don't you?" Greg asked.
"We-e-ell." Marjorie drew out the word while she tried to judge just what Greg meant. "I know that's a misuse of the word, but really, at a Coronation they always use horse-drawn coaches and the Abbey will be lit by candles. And they don't need any heat there with all the peers in their furred robes."
"Yes, I love to see them," Jan said. "So colorful."
"Quite public-minded, too, the peers." Jame stated judiciously. "They've been very helpful to the government. Getting legislation through speedily and so on."
"Oh, yes." Greg smiled. "They'll do anything for the worker, except become one."
To a chorus of agreeing chuckles, Heather added, "Well, yes, anyone would rather talk than work. The peers just fill the air with their speeches."
"And from what I've seen, vice versa," Greg responded.
James' face stiffened. Marjorie suddenly remembered that he had an influential relative in the House of Lords. She stood quickly and murmured something about fetching the chicken. As she left, Markham started a sentence about the American view of the opposition party and James' thin-lipped mouth relaxed. One end of the table focused on Greg's political stilettos and at the other James asked, "It still seems strange saying 'the King' after a whole lifetime of 'the Queen,' doesn't it?"
Marjorie returned with a large casserole of chicken in cream sauce with spring vegetables and a rice pilaff. Appreciative murmurs greeted the wash of steamy aroma that rose when she lifted the lid. As she served the chicken, the conversation fragmented, James and Greg talking about the labor laws, the others talking of the forthcoming Coronation. Queen Elizabeth had abdicated in favor of her eldest son the previous Christmas and he had chosen to be crowned on his fiftieth birthday, in November.
John had gone to get more wine, a home-made hock this time.
"I think it's a terrible waste of money," Heather declared. "There are so many better things we could spend the money on than a Coronation. What about cancer for instance? The statistics are horrifying. One in four, is it now?" She abruptly fell silent.
Marjorie knew the cause, and yet it seemed pointless to smooth over it.
She leaned forward. "How is your mother?"
Heather did not hesitate to take up the topic; Marjorie realized she needed to talk about it. "Mummy's doing fine, all things considered. I mean, she's deteriorating, of course, but she really seems to have accepted it. She was dreadfully afraid of being doped up at the end, you know."
"She's not going to be?" John asked.
"No, the doctors say not. There is this new electronic anaesthetic thing."
"They simply tap into the superficial brain centers," James added. "It blocks the perception of pain. Much less risky than chemical anaesthetics."
"Less addictive, too, I suppose?" Greg asked.
Heather blinked. "I hadn't thought of that. Could you get addicted?"
"Maybe not, if they simply turn off the pain," Jan said. "But that if they find a way to stimulate the pleasure centers as well?"
"They already have," Greg murmured.
"Really?" Marjorie said. "Are they using that, too?"
"They don't dare." James spoke with an air of finality.
"Well, in any case," Heather continued, "it's all quite beside the point for Mummy. The doctors haven't a clue how to stop the cancer she has."
Before interest could center on details of the prognosis, Marjorie steered talk to other subjects.
When the telephone rang, John answered. A reedy voice identified itself as Peterson.
"I wanted to let you know before I packed
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