Treasures of Time by Penelope Lively Page B

zodiac on the cover, super-imposed on a colour photograph of a bit of rural England. ‘Five pounds ninety’ said Mrs Harbottle. ‘The title comes from a poem by the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas. If Mr Greenway has been telling you about my work you may recognize the reference. “The force that through the green fuse drives…” ’
    ‘Thank you,’ said Tom, putting the book back on the table. ‘I haven’t got six pounds, I’m afraid. It’s an interesting use of the quotation, I must say.’
    Mrs Harbottle heaved herself out of her chair. ‘In that case,’ she said, ‘I must find you a copy of our monthly magazine. You may like to take out a sub – four fifty a year.’ She went out of the room.
    ‘Christ,’ said Tom. The labrador had also got up and was approaching Tony’s leg with renewed interest. Tony put out a foot and shoved it away vigorously. Mrs Harbottle returned with a pile of magazines which she dumped on Tom’s knee. ‘Just have a look through the latest issue, it’ll give you an idea. I can let you have that number for fifty pence, since we’ve a few left over.’
    The magazine, in format, looked much like the Church Times . In a central spread, someone had been taking appalling liberties with the Ordnance Survey map of part of Hereford-shire. The correspondence column was kicking around the idea that the road-system of inner London, if properly interpreted, reveals the outline of Sagittarius. Some fellow-traveller, in a lengthy article, was discussing the properties of rays emanating from a pattern of bird-shapes, eyes and the letter S detectable in the contour-lines of the Pyrenees. Tom was reminded of one of Stukeley’s wilder fancies: the notion that the ground plan of Avebury and its avenues represent a circle penetrated by a snake – ‘an hieroglyphic or symbol of highest note and antiquity’. Putting the pile down firmly on the table he said, ‘No, thank you, Mrs Harbottle. I don’t really go in for this kind of thing.’
    Mrs Harbottle, apparently undisturbed, said, ‘What’s your job, Mr – er…?’
    ‘Rider,’ said Tony. ‘Tom Rider. Tom’s a historian.’
    ‘Then you should be ashamed of yourself’ said Mrs Harbottle with energy. ‘You ought to know we don’t know all the answers. I can see you’re one of those people who refuse to be open-minded.’ She leaned towards him, so that he could see more clearly the ginger hairs that lurked in the folds of her chin and gave her a faint peppery moustache; she wagged a finger at him, ‘There is more to heaven and earth than is dreamed of in all thy philosophy, O Hamlet.’
    Tony cleared his throat. ‘You know,’ he said, with a glance at his watch, ‘I really think perhaps Mrs Harbottle and I had better have our little talk.’
    ‘Right,’ said Tom quickly, getting to his feet. Mrs Harbottle shook him warmly by the hand and said if he was going along to the Abbey he must climb the hill and look down on the complex of buildings and he would see the outline of the Wheel of Fortune pointing to the north-east. ‘The cosmic forces are clearly to be felt,’ she added, ‘if you only let yourself be receptive.’ The labrador followed Tom to the garden gate, sniffing at his trousers.
    He went down the lane, walking quickly, in sunlight quivering through beech leaves – round a corner, and there, straddling the narrow valley, were those golden ruins. He paid his entrance fee and went across the grass, Mrs Harbottle quite forgotten, and Tony; enjoying himself, enjoying the place.
    He found it difficult to define what he felt, confronted by somewhere like this. Or rather, to sort out what he felt: pleasure in the beauty of it; an exasperating uprush of sentiment that had eerie connections with the most despised manifestations of chauvinism and soft-centred Englishry; a springing to attention of the intellect – now what have we here? Who built this, why? How? When? Outrage at the insensitivities of change – car park,