Free The Queen of the Tambourine by Jane Gardam

Your own father . . .”
    â€œLook Eliza, be sensible.” (Brum again.) “And Ma’s in Bangladesh having experiences.”
    â€œShe must come home.” (Yes, Joan.)
    â€œI think she won’t. She’s ill you know. Gone potty. Flipped. We can’t get near her. It’s a year now.”
    I should like to be able to tell you now, Joan, that at this point Sarah began to cry. She did not. She crossed her silky legs, took an old-world powder compact out of her pocket and looked this way and that, searching her face for signs of weakness. Again she reminded me of my dreadful cousin, Annie Cartwright, thirty years ago and I cannot say why, but thinking this, the room became suddenly cold. I found that I was shaking. It was a relief when Sarah did something equally unsophisticated but true to her own self. She took a small white handkerchief from her pocket and began to suck the end of it.
    â€œOh, all right, Sarah. All right. Of course I’ll come. When are we to go?”
    â€œHalf-past three. We’re late. Tea is three forty-five until four-thirty.”
    â€œI suppose it’s a college. We never had tea when I was an undergraduate, except a bun or a tray we pushed along. Won’t it be very public?”
    â€œNo, it’s a college but it’s very quiet. We’ll be in the Fellows’ drawing room. He’s a Professor.”
    â€œSarah—he must be ninety!”
    â€œYou’re out of date, Eliza,” said the Queen, collecting a handbag and, great heaven, gloves. “There are some frightfully young ones now. Reg is barely fifty.”
    â€œReg?” I said. Somehow Reg did not sound like a Professor. Had she been duped, I wondered? Had I misheard? Was it the college janitor? Porter? Approaching the porter through the great gates of a college, announcing ourselves to him through the glass of his little office, it seemed unlikely. A delightful man. He smiled with avuncular pleasure on seeing Sarah, who seemed to be familiar to him. He said that Professor Hookaneye was expecting us and that he would ring through.
    â€œHookaneye?”
    â€œYes,” said the Queen. “They come from Tewkesbury.”
    â€œI honestly don’t see that where the Hookaneyes come from . . .”
    â€œOh golly,” she said, and disappeared behind a golden buttress.
    Beyond her, over the greensward, I beheld a very slender man as tall as Henry, six foot four at least. He towered above us, suspended in the air as on a magician’s string. His long head looked like a Leicestershire sheep.
    Well, Joan, first I suppose I should reassure you in one department. He is perfectly respectable. He is I think probably the most respectable man I’ve ever met. He was wearing a pale grey double-breasted suit, dark blue tie and highly polished shoes. He walked carefully, his head a little dipped. He had thick grey hair like a helmet. Every possible bit of him was covered up. I never saw a man who showed so little skin—unless perhaps a member of the IRA or Ku Klux Klan and I’ve never actually seen either of these. The idea of Professor Hookaneye’s nakedness was awesome. A holy mystery.
    â€œI’m sorry to say,” said he, “that we must go first to my rooms. The other member of our tea-party is late.”
    â€œOther member?”
    â€œYes. We’re only allowed one guest per Fellow, so I have had to call in a colleague for the godmother.”
    I looked round for the godmother and then glared at Sarah.
    â€œI’d be quite happy to miss tea,” I said, “and talk here.”
    We had arranged ourselves on his Grecian sofa. I wondered if this was where the seduction had taken place and looked intently at the Professor who had put his fingertips together as though in prayer. This seemed hopeful. We sat. The gold buildings shone in through the window. The room was a miracle of order. A tome stood upon a lectern. It appeared to be