Treasures of Time by Penelope Lively Page A

approve of this kind of jaunt,’ said Tony. ‘It unwinds me. We’ll lunch at Pontefract I think, I don’t go for motorway caffs and there’s a rather nice pub there.’ They sped north, amid convoys of traffic; Tom sat in a pleasurable torpor, listening to the music, looking out from time to time at fields and villages and distant church spires, that desert England ignored by Tony’s map.

    Over lunch, Tom had been amazed at the calm and familiarity with which, evidently, Tony sped about the place. He had been here only last week, en route for Scotland. Bristol the day before yesterday; Wales next week; Carlisle on Thursday. Oh, he said, that’s one of the things I like about my line of work, you’re out and about a lot, you see the world all right. He treated the country like an enlarged Underground system, popping without consideration from station to station: he knew hotels and eating-places from Edinburgh to Southampton, traffic-dodging short cuts in every city centre. He was perplexed by Tom’s interest. ‘It’s just,’ Tom explained, ‘that I was brought up to treat travel with deference, not to be undertaken lightly or without a great deal of forward planning and the habit has stuck. Also, I’ve never had enough money to move around. And I can’t drive. And I haven’t got a car.’
    They reached their destination, a village near Fountains Abbey, in the early afternoon. Tom, in response to Tony’s suggestion that he look in for a few minutes and meet this Mrs Harbottle, said he thought he might do that – ‘If you don’t think she’ll spot my aura of scepticism?’ ‘Shouldn’t think so,’ said Tony. ‘She’s used to it, I imagine. You might find it amusing anyway – and you can slope off after a bit and leave me to talk business.’
    The bungalow was set back from the lane in a lush and leafy countryside; it seemed to wallow in greenery. Mrs Harbottle, opening the door, said ‘Ah. Mr Greenway. As good as your word. Come along in with you.’ Her voice was loud, and of confident gentility. Tony said, ‘This is my colleague, Tom Rider.’ They were ushered down a passage that smelled of cat, and into a sitting room overlooking tipping fields in which black and white cows grazed like cardboard cut-outs, all pointing the same way.
    Mrs Harbottle was a stout woman of sixty odd. She wore a tweed jacket over a jersey that showed the outline of corsetry beneath; thick stockings hung in reptilian wrinkles on her legs; her hair escaped in wisps from a perfunctory arrangement of netting and hair pins at the back. She said, ‘Had a good drive up? By the way if either of you need the doings it’s first right at the end of the passage.’ She began to talk to Tony, with enthusiasm, about letters that had been forwarded to her after the programme. ‘Put me in touch with all sorts of fellow spirits,’ she said. ‘Really smashing.’
    Tom looked round the room. There was a lot of brass and chintz. A pile of parish magazines and the Church Times on a table suggested religious involvement of some kind. On the wall were framed coloured photographs of pleasing views.
    The door burst open and a labrador bounded into the room, wagging its tail furiously. It rushed at each of them in turn and then proceeded to make a sexual assault on Tony’s leg. Mrs Harbottle dragged it away, saying, ‘Naughty boy. Mr Greenway doesn’t like that.’ She pushed the dog down beside her chair. ‘Did you see my programme, Mr er –, there’s a few things I’m not happy about but on the whole I think it gave quite a good picture of our work.’
    Tom said, ‘I didn’t, I’m afraid. Tony’s been telling me something about it.’
    ‘I’d like you to take a copy of my book. It’s written in collaboration with my colleague Alfred Binns, of Bath.’ She reached out to the table beside her and took from a pile a thin volume, wearing the imprint of a private press, and entitled The Green Fuse . It bore the signs of the