Dust to Dust Read Free Page A

product”, something the bean counters can patent, something they can sell. There has to be “economic justification” for what you do.’
    ‘And researching fourteenth-century plagues doesn’t fit the bill?’
    ‘They couldn’t have put it better themselves,’ John agreed. ‘Although, of course, they didn’t, preferring instead to go all round the houses using that funny language they speak these days about “moving forward” and being “proactive in the need for networking” as we “embrace the twenty-first century”. Where did they come up with all that junk?’
    ‘These people are everywhere,’ Cassie said sympathetically. ‘A woman turned up at the WI the other day, giving a talk about detoxifying the system, as she put it. I asked her what toxins she would be removing and she got quite snippy, demanded to know if I was a qualified nutritionist. I said no, I was a bloody doctor and would she please answer the question, and of course she couldn’t. Just what the hell is a qualified nutritionist when it’s at home?’
    ‘There’s been some kind of fusion between science and fashion which means that pseudo-scientists are popping up everywhere, spouting their baloney.’
    ‘Maybe we should go for a change of career.’ Cassie accepted the milk jug.
    ‘I may have to if any more grant money dries up. You know …’ John paused for a moment while he struggled with the marmalade jar. ‘I think I’m going to retrain as a celebrity nail technician.’
    Cassie almost choked on her cornflakes. ‘Where on earth did you come up with that one?’ she gasped.
    ‘I heard some woman on breakfast TV being introduced as that and I thought that’s for me … John Motram, celebrity nail technician. To hell with higher education, let’s do something really important and start polishing the fingernails of the rich and famous. How about you?’
    ‘International hair colourist, I think,’ said Cassie, after a moment’s thought. ‘Same source.’
    ‘That’s us sorted then,’ said John. ‘A new life awaits.’
    ‘It’s just a pity we’re in our fifties,’ said Cassie. ‘And I have a full surgery waiting for me.’
    ‘And I have a second-year class in medical microbiology to fill with awe if not shock,’ said John. ‘Such a pity. I was looking forward to jetting off to LA or wherever these people go at the weekend.’
    The letter box clattered and the sound of mail hitting the floor caused Cassie to swing her legs round on her stool and pad off to the porch in her stockinged feet. She reappeared, head to one side as she shuffled her way through a bunch of envelopes, giving impromptu predictions of their contents. ‘Bill … bill … junk … junk … postcard from Bill and Janet in Barcelona – we must go there: we’ve been talking about it for ages – and one for you from … the University of Oxford, Balliol College no less.’
    ‘Really?’ John accepted the letter and opened it untidily with his thumb, taking thirty seconds or so to read it before saying, ‘Good Lord.’
    ‘Well? Don’t be so mysterious.’
    ‘It’s from the Master of Balliol. He wants to see me next week.’
    ‘What about?’
    ‘Doesn’t say.’ John handed the letter over.
    ‘How odd. Will you go?’
    ‘What’s to lose?’
    ‘Maybe he’s heard you’re thinking of a career change and offering you a chair in celebrity nail technology?’
    ‘Could well be.’ John nodded sagely. ‘But I’ll only accept if you’re given a research fellowship in international hair colouring.’
    ‘Deal,’ said Cassie, slipping on her shoes. ‘Meanwhile I have coughs to cure and bums to jab … Have a nice day, as we international hair colourists say.’
    ‘You too. Maybe I’ll have a think outside the box about all this …’
    ‘Absolutely … Push the boundaries …’
    Cassie left for the surgery and John cleared away the breakfast things, still feeling curious about the letter from Oxford. As a senior lecturer in cell