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CHAPTER TITLE (Prologue)
AUTHOR Selina Apostol
COPYRIGHT 2006 Selina Apostol
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Many thanks to Bryony Dicks for suggesting adding an
introductory chapter, and for helping to edit the first draft.
PERMISSIONS All text copyright as above.
CHAPTER NOTES First of several "prologues" introducing each new volume. Each
prologue takes up where the last left off and narrates the conclusion of
Song of Hydrogen.
ILLUSTRATION NOTES No drawings. Later on minor Flash elements on webpage.
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“An ugly girl once gave me a box containing a pebble, to use to throw at
her window whenever I fancied taking her out.
Of course we both knew that that
would never happen.”
Laurence had been wondering about love. B said he
loved only the way he needed to. On recovering, he had replied, doesn’t
everyone? For her righteousness he decided to leave her at home, careful to be
vague about his errand. She understood at once that he would be spending the day
with Nanette.
They met in the park, at the usual place, under a
wave of tall brown grass that grew on the brow of the hill. Laurence had brought
a blanket, which he shook out and spread over the slightly inclining ground.
Nanette sat down without a word. A sheet of soil and rock had come scrambling
down as she made her way up this hill. It was nearly dangerous, which made
her wonder about her certainty: it was only nearly dangerous, never truly
so. In any case it ensured that their spot was always lonely in spite of the
view. For about two hundred metres away on the next hill in line of sight stood
the Royal Observatory, its dome open a crack. On the plain below them lay the
Queen's House, the ghosts of Henry VIII's old summer palace and, across the
water, London.
Nanette tried to feel genteel. That was what Maritime Greenwich did to you,
but today it seemed to require effort. Laurence’s story recalled her to a
time—a very different time—she didn’t want to remember. She kept herself
very still, to attend to the panorama.
The panorama didn’t count to Laurence. Elliot
Winter was dead.
He had paused for a response, but gaining none,
tossed away the stone that had attracted him, and began to unpack their picnic.
“I forgot to bring some of that rhubarb-and-ginger jam that you liked,” he
said. Nanette reached into her bag and pulled out a daintily wrapped jar. He
knew she would hunt out the shop he’d found it in, because this jam was her
kind of thing. It had a very pleasant tang that had nothing to do with either of
its ingredients, that is, it was a thing capable of surprise. Give us two of
your favourite words, the journalist had asked. Surprise, and attack, he had
replied. And now he was dead.
Nanette peered at Laurence’s face. She couldn’t
mention Elliot. He hadn’t told her about it. Perhaps she wasn’t meant to
know.
“What’s your favourite word, Nanette?”
“That’s an American question. That’s a Hollywood celebrity
question,” she replied. This irritated him. He lay back down and watched her
small dull eyes. How would B have answered the question? How would B, his
Delilah, his Arabella, his Old Man of the Sea answer?
“You never liked him,” she hazarded. “No,”
Laurence whispered, failing to notice anything amiss.
What would he say if I told him that Elliot’s
brother came round to my house last night, she thought. I heard the news too,
Laurence. I’ve known those two for a long time. But how could I tell you?
He’s from your big world; I’m only from one of your little ones...
“How’s Lamorna?”
Lamorna. I haven’t heard that word in ages,
thought Laurence. “She’s called B.” She’s called B because that’s
what’s missing from Lam.
Had it been Elliot, then, all this time? Elliot. She
couldn’t blame Laurence.They sat silent for some time. It was August, and
hard to tell from the sky whether it was now actually night.
“Things coming to an end,” Nanette said at last.
"Yes."
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