Free Empty World by John Christopher Page B

beans.” He gestured to a gadget beside the cooker. “That’s the grinder. No power problems. She carries a nice little generator. So does Bessie, of course.”
    â€œBessie?” Neil asked helplessly.
    â€œThe Rolls. Bonny Black Bess. No, I think we’ll have the Rombouts—it’s quicker.”
    He poured water from the tap into a percolator, added coffee, lit one of the rings with a gas-lighter, and set the percolator on it. Neil was looking around. Although it was so evidently a kitchen there were puzzling additions: a stand-up mirror with a heavy silver surround that looked antique, an old-fashioned goblet on the draining board with thesoft sheen of gold, a cross on the wall, outlined with what seemed like rubies.
    The black eyes, deep-set in the pale face, missed nothing. Clive said:
    â€œPretty, aren’t they? But wait till you see the real stuff.” He opened another cupboard. “We’ll use the Royal Doulton. I’ve got proper coffee cups—Sèvres—but they’re not big enough for a decent drink.”
    Neil asked: “Where did you get it all?”
    Clive shrugged. “Just bits and pieces, salvaged from the ancestral home. They weren’t kept in a cara­van in the old days, of course. Let me show you round, while the coffee’s brewing.”
    There was a shower next to the kitchen, and a toilet beyond. The water tank was in the roof, Clive explained. He kept a couple of spare Calor gas cylinders for the heating, and knew where to get as many more as he wanted.
    Opposite the toilet units were cupboards. Clive carelessly pulled open a door, to reveal a large quantity of clothes, among which Neil saw two evening suits and a camel-hair overcoat with a fur collar. A drawer which he opened held a pile of silk shirts. In a smaller compartment to one side were several setsof cuff-links, all of gold, some jewelled as well. A rack at the bottom held shoes—black, brown and suede—and a pair of long riding boots. Another rack at the top had dozens of silk ties.
    â€œMy wardrobe,” Clive said in explanation. “And this is the salon.”
    A door slid to one side, showing a room partitioned about a third of the way along. The smaller section, as Clive demonstrated, had a pull-out table of polished oak.
    â€œThere was a set of stackable stools, as well,” he said, “but I threw them out.” He indicated a pair of upright chairs against the facing wall. “Chippendale, those.”
    The main section had pull-out beds on either side, but because of the furniture only one lot could be used. There was a black and gilt writing desk with swelling gilt legs ending in claw-and-ball feet, a small table, intricately inlaid with marquetry, carrying a large portable cassette recorder, and a very big club armchair in green leather. A carpet on the floor glowed dully in reds and blues and amber.
    â€œPersian,” Clive explained.
    That was far from being all. Built-in shelves werecrammed with all kinds of treasures. Neil saw various silver and gold vessels, a set of gold and silver chessmen, an ostrich egg mounted on a golden base, a gold and ivory carving of three Chinamen fishing beside a silver pool. . . . On one wall was hung a curved sword in a gilded scabbard, and on another an ornately decorated shot-gun with a chased-silver butt. There were paintings, too: very little blank space showed at all. Clive pointed to one.
    â€œRembrandt. I could only bring the smaller canvases, of course.”
    Neil said, with a feeling of inadequacy:
    â€œIt’s amazing.”
    â€œNot bad.” Clive nodded with approval. “I think that’s the sound of the coffee percolating.”
    The coffee, with Coffeemate in place of cream, was very good. As they drank it, Neil tried to find out about Clive’s recent experiences but did not get far. The answers to the questions he put were vague. He had been travelling