Timescape Read Free Page B

through it, breaking beaded spider webs with her body, she stopped here and there to pinch off a dead bloom or to sniff at a bud. It was early in the year, but a few roses were blossoming already. She talked to each bush as she passed it.
    "Charlotte Armstrong, you're doing very well. Look at all those buds.
    You're going to be absolutely beautiful this summer. Tiffany, how are you?
    I see some green fly on you. I'll have to spray you. Good morning, Queen Elizabeth, you're looking very healthy, but you're sticking out rather too far into the path. I should have pruned you more on this side."
    Somewhere in the distance she could hear a knocking sound. It alternated with the trill of a blue tit perched on the hedge. With a start she realized that the knocking was coming from her own house. It couldn't be Heather or Linda; they would come round the back. She turned.
    Raindrops splattered from the leaves as she brushed past the rose bushes.
    She hurried across the lawn and round the side of the house, setting the bucket down by the kitchen door.
    A shabbily dressed woman with a pitcher in her hand was turning away from the front door. She looked as though she had camped all night; her hair was matted and there were smudges on her face. She was about Marjorie's height, but thin and round-shouldered.
    Marjorie hesitated. So did the woman. They eyed each other across the U-shaped sweep of the gravel drive. Then Marjorie moved forward.
    "Good morning." She was about to say, "Can I do something for you?"
    but held back, uncertain as to whether she wanted to do anything for this woman or not.
    "Morning, Miss. Could you lend me a bit o' milk, do you think? I'm all out o' milk and the kids 'aven't 'ad their breakfast yet." Her manner was confident but somehow not cordial.
    Marjorie narrowed her eyes. "Where are you from?" she asked.
    "I've just moved into the old farm down the road. Just a little milk, lady." The woman moved closer to her, holding out the pitcher.
    The old farm–but that's derelict, Marjorie thought. They must be squatters. Her uneasiness increased.
    "Why do you come here? The shops are open at this time of day. There's a farm along the road, you know, Where you can buy milk."
    "Come on, lady, you wouldn't make me walk miles while the little ones are waiting, would you? I'll let you 'ave it back. Don't you believe me?"

    No, Marjorie thought. Why hadn't the woman gone to one of her own kind? There were some little Council houses just a few yards beyond her grounds.
    "I'm sorry," she said firmly, "but I haven't got any to spare."
    They confronted each other for a moment. Then the woman turned towards the shrubbery.
    " 'Ere, Rog," she called. A tall, gaunt man emerged from the rhododendrons, tugging a small boy by the hand. With an effort Marjorie kept herself from showing any alarm. She stood stiffly, her head' a little back, trying to look in control of the situation. The man shuffled over to stand next to the woman. Marjorie's nostrils flared slightly as she caught a sour odor of sweat and smoke. He was wearing an assortment of clothes that must have come from many different sources, a cloth cap, a long striped college scarf, woolen gloves with all the fingers unraveled, a pair of jaunty blue espadrilles with one sole flapping, trousers that were several inches too short and too wide, and, incongruously, a lavishly embroidered waistcoat under a dusty old vinyl jacket. He was probably about Marjorie's age but looked at least ten years older. His face was leathery, his eyes deep set, and he had several days' growth of stubble on his chin. She was aware of the contrast she made with them, standing there plump and well-fed, her short hair fluffy from washing, her skin protected by creams and lotions, in what she called her "old" gardening clothes, a soft blue wool skirt, a handknit sweater, and a sheepskin jacket.
    "You expect us to believe you don't 'ave no milk in the 'ouse, lady?" the man growled.
    "I didn't say that."