Free Weaver by Stephen Baxter Page A

morning, in the stuffy parlour of George Tanner’s little terraced house in the Old Town of Hastings.
    When Mary came downstairs, a sheaf of her research papers under her arm, she found George, Ben Kamen, Gary and Hilda standing side by side. They all held cups of tea in saucers, rather stiffly. The windows were taped, and buckets of sand stood in the corners. Everybody was in uniform save Mary, George in his copper’s jacket, Gary and Hilda in the colours of the British Army and Air Force respectively, and even Ben Kamen, a bit crumpled, in the Army-like khaki of the Home Guard. It would have made a good group portrait, Mary reflected, thinking like a journalist.
    Gary and Hilda hung back, shyly. ‘Oh, a card came for you today, Mary.’ George picked it off the mantelpiece and handed it to her. She glanced at it; it was a postcard, addressed to her in a round, unfamiliar handwriting.
    Ben was eager to speak to Mary, and he stepped forward. ‘Mary, Hilda said you found out something?’
    Mary glanced at Gary and Hilda. ‘We can talk about it later. But, briefly, I dug up a lot of stuff in Colchester, following the lead you gave me about Geoffrey Cotesford. Take a look at this.’ She handed him her sheaf of documents, some copied from the archive she’d visited at Colchester, some her own notes.
    Ben read hastily: “Time’s Tapestry: As mapped by myself; in which the long warp threads are the history of the whole world; and the wefts which run from selvedge to selvedge are distortions of that history, deflected by a Weaver unknown; be he human, divine or satanic ... Oh, my.’
    ‘This is getting very strange,’ Mary said. ‘We need to talk.’
    ‘Yeah, but not right now, Mom, Jeez,’ Gary said, breaking his silence at last. ‘Look - we don’t have much time. You know I’m being mobilised today. We want to give you time to get used to the idea before, well, before we all go off to our separate duties.’
    George looked baffled. ‘What idea?’
    Gary hesitated, the silence stretching. Mary’s heart pulsed with pride to see him standing there in his crisp uniform with his crimson-haired girl at his side, even if she ached to think of the damage this war had already done to him.
    And Mary suddenly knew why she had been brought here. ‘You’ve gone and done it, haven’t you?’
    Ben was grinning. ‘Gary, you dog.’
    George snapped, ‘Done what? Will somebody tell me—’
    Hilda lifted her left hand. The ring on her finger was a simple gold band. ‘It was my mother’s,’ she said. She faced her father defiantly. ‘Look, Dad, it was all a rush. We didn’t even decide to do it until last Friday, when Gary’s orders came through, and we knew we were running out of time. And then we went to the town hall, and found a registrar who was prepared to see to us on the spot—’
    ‘See to you,’ Ben said mockingly.
    ‘Shut up, Ben,’ Gary said mildly.
    Hilda said, ‘Dad, we wanted you there, of course we did. And you, Mary. But we didn’t want to lose this chance before - you know. In case we didn’t get another go. And besides—’
    ‘And besides,’ Mary said drily, ‘you thought if you told us in advance we might have said no. Well, you’re not the only wartime bride, are you?’
    Gary looked at her uncertainly. ‘Are you happy for us?’
    ‘Oh, love, of course I am.’ She crossed to him and hugged him, smelling the pungent scent of his new khaki uniform. ‘It’s a shock. But we live in a world of shocks, don’t we?’
    Hilda turned to her father. ‘Dad? What about you?’
    George’s face was hard. ‘Well, you haven’t given me much choice in the matter, have you? Gary, you’re a good boy, anybody can see that. But, Hilda - your mother’s ring - and you didn’t even tell me!’
    Hilda’s face was set. ‘Yes, well, this is why, I knew how you’d be.’
    As tempers soured, Ben shrank back, dismayed.
    The telephone rang in the hall. It made George jump. It had only been installed a