Free Playing for the Ashes by Elizabeth George

but also his throbbing member, which, of course, was throbbing and had always throbbed only for her. They would consummate this desperate throbbing within the next few pages, accompanied by hardening nipples and birds taking flight, after which they would lie in each other’s arms and wonder why it had taken them one hundred and eighty pages to reach this miraculous moment. There was nothing like great literature to accompany a fin e meal.
    Barbara grabbed the novel and was about to head back to the table when she saw that her answering machine was blinking. One blink, one call. She watched it for a moment.
    She was on rota this weekend, but it was hard to believe that she was being called back to work less than two hours after having left it. That being the case and her number being ex-directory, the only other caller would be Florence Magentry, Mrs. Flo, her mother’s keeper.
    Barbara meditated on the possibilities presented by pushing the button and listening to the message. If it was the Yard, she was back at work with barely time to cool her heels or eat her meal. If it was Mrs. Flo, she would be embarking on another trip on the Great Guilt Railway. Barbara hadn’t gone to Greenford last weekend to see her mother as scheduled. She hadn’t gone to Greenford the weekend before. She knew that she had to go this weekend if she was to continue to live with herself, but she didn’t want to, she didn’t want to think why she didn’t want to, and talking to Florence Magentry—even listening to her voice on the machine—would lead her to consider the nature of her avoidance and ask her to begin assigning it the appropriate labels: selfishness, thoughtlessness, and all the rest.
    Her mother had been in Hawthorne Lodge for nearly six months now. Barbara had managed a visit at least every two weeks. The move to Chalk Farm had finally provided her with an excuse not to go and she’d grabbed on to it happily, substituting her presence with telephone calls in which she catalogued for Mrs. Flo all the reasons why there would have to be yet another unfortunate delay in her regularly scheduled appearances in Greenford. And they were good reasons, as Mrs. Flo herself assured Barbara during one or another of their usual Monday/Thursday chats. Barbie wasn’t to pick at herself if she wasn’t able to get out to Mum right away. Barbie had a life as well, dear, and no one expected her to try not to live it. “You get yourself settled into that new house of yours,” Mrs. Flo said. “Mum’ll do just fine in the meanwhile, Barbie. See if she won’t.”
    Barbara hit the play button on her answering machine and returned to the table where her ham salad waited.
    “Hello, Barbie.” The greeting was spoken by the soporific read-me-a-bedtime-story voice of Mrs. Flo. “I wanted to let you know that Mum’s a touch under the weather, dear. I thought it best to phone and tell you at once.”
    Barbara hurried back to the telephone, ready to punch in Mrs. Flo’s number. As if anticipating this, Mrs. Flo continued.
    “Now, I don’t think a doctor’s visit is called for in the least, Barbie, but Mum’s temperature is up two degrees and she’s had herself a bit of a cough these last few days…” There was a pause during which Barbara could hear one of Mrs. Flo’s other houseguests singing along with Deborah Kerr, who was in the process of inviting Yul Brynner to dance. It had to be Mrs. Salkild. The King and I was her favourite video, and she insisted upon seeing it at least once a week. “Actually, dear,” Mrs. Flo went on carefully, “Mum’s been asking for you as well. It’s just been since lunchtime, so I don’t want you to put yourself into a dither over this, but since she so rarely mentions anyone by name, I thought it might cheer Mum up to hear your voice. You know how it is when one’s not quite feeling one hundred percent, don’t you, dear? Do ring if you can. Cheerie bye, Barbie.”
    Barbara reached for the