Gifted and Talented by Wendy Holden Page A

about that sort of thing, to judge by the list of merchandise Flora Thynne was sending to Allegra Trott.
    Oh, whatever. It was their business. Abruptly, he stood up. ‘I have to go,’ he announced.
    The day’s early dullness had, most unexpectedly, melted into a glowing October afternoon. Autumn’s fiery wand had transformed even Branston’s beleaguered acres into a coppery blaze and wherever she looked – so long as it was not too closely – Diana saw radiant trees with light bouncing off every leaf and grass with a hovering layer of gold atop the green.
    She was working near a long, low box of grey concrete with a long slit close to the top, which went across the entire width of the building and made it look like an enormous postbox. In the unlikely event that anyone even noticed it, they might have assumed it to be a garage, or perhaps the room where all the electricity cables were gathered. In fact, it was the Branston College Master’s Lodge and the long slit was the building’s main window, although the influx of light was severely compromised by a dangling growth of red-tinged Boston vine, which fringed the edge of the building’s roof. This meant that, for all the building represented in cutting-edge constructional thought, the effect within was, Diana imagined, not dissimilar to the gloomiest of Dark Ages fortresses. She was trimming the vine.
    As she worked, she became aware of a growing commotion at the garden’s other side, in the area nearest to the college entrance. Formerly empty, it now held a considerable number of people, mostly men in casual, dark clothes, jostling to get a glimpse of something she could not see. They were calling out and brandishing large, long objects with glass pieces that caught the light: cameras, Diana realised. She recognised the furry things swinging about as sound booms – and wasn’t that a film camera there? What or who were they filming?
    The possibility that it was the new Master flashed through her mind. She knew nothing about him, neither his name nor what he looked like. But he seemed the most likely contender.
    Drawing near out of curiosity, Diana saw the crowd part suddenly and a beautiful blonde girl came striding through. She wore a mortar board and a dark scholar’s gown with high heels and stockings. And nothing else, a bemused Diana saw. Except some very skimpy underwear, revealed now as, with a dazzling smile, the girl opened the gown wide. There was a roar of approval and the whirr and click of cameras.
    Diana, clippers in hand, could only stare. It seemed most unlikely that this girl was a student. This must be some sort of fashion show or something.
    A small white fluffy dog was pushing its head out from under the black gown. It appeared to be clamped under the girl’s arm. As Diana watched, she pulled it out, thrust it into the mortar board and, striking another pose, held it up for the photographers. There was another roar of approval.
    A liberated man at last, Richard was striding towards the bike racks to the rear of Branston and considering the next likely move of the worms he was using in his research. The experiment involved associating smell with colour, and what that revealed about the brain. The worms, exposed to a certain smell, were supposed to head for a certain colour. So far, however, they were refusing to play the game and match any one colour to any one smell. Perhaps, Richard thought, strapping on his helmet, it was just that these were particularly stupid worms. He brightened. Were some worms more intelligent than others? Another whole new field to explore, potentially.
    He swung his leg over the saddle, looking up at the Branston dome framed by autumn trees as he did so. It looked rather uncharacteristically picturesque and Richard was conscious of a brief burst of something almost like affection for the place. Why couldn’t they leave it alone? He could still almost hear the Bursar banging on about the financial challenges