Free Now and in the Hour of Our Death by Patrick Taylor Page B

school family went home at three o’clock and on weekends.
    She picked up her pen and began to write her report of the interview.
    *   *   *
    â€œAll done?” Becky sat, back straight, shoulders back on an elderly sofa in the teachers’ common room. “How did it go?”
    â€œIt’s over, thank goodness. I think I’ve given them something to work on.”
    â€œI’m absolutely sure you have.” Becky stood. “I can’t say I’m overly fond of meeting with parents, but as an old mentor of mine used to observe, ‘In this life, there will always be a certain amount of shit to be shoveled. My advice to you, Miss Johnston, is to stop complaining, get yourself a long-handled spade … and start digging.’”
    Fiona laughed at the incongruity of the coarse sentiments being expressed in accents that would have done a BBC newsreader proud.
    Becky grabbed her coat from a clothes tree and said, “Come on. Coffee. You’ve earned it.”
    Fiona followed her friend out of the school to where Becky had her car parked.
    â€œHow about that coffee shop on Fourth?” Becky asked.
    â€œThat’s fine by me. We could walk.”
    â€œI always say, if God had meant us to walk, He wouldn’t have invented the internal combustion engine. Hop in.” Becky pulled away from the kerb, drove the short distance from the school to Fourth Avenue, parked and climbed out.
    Fiona asked for a table on the patio. “It’s far too nice to be stuck inside any longer today.”
    She followed Becky as the waitress led them to a table for two in the corner of the wrought-iron-railinged enclosure. Becky ordered a latte, Fiona an espresso.
    â€œIsn’t that sari absolutely gorgeous?” Becky said, inclining her head toward the sidewalk.
    Fiona saw a Sikh couple, the woman in a sari as iridescent as the tail feathers of a peacock’s fan, walking beside a man wearing a bright orange turban. Behind them, a group of Chinese women was striding along talking loudly in what she assumed was either Cantonese or Mandarin.
    Becky leaned forward and said quietly, “I wonder why the Chinese always have to yell at each other? It’s a bit common, you know.”
    Fiona laughed. Becky had kept more than her accent. Occasionally, she let something slip that told Fiona that, in the eyes of the English expatriate, Britannia still ruled the waves.
    â€œIt’s just their way. You get used to it. I think it’s wonderful that so many people from all over the world live here in Vancouver and seem to be able to get along,” Fiona said. “Not like where I come from.” There was a tinge of sadness to her voice.
    â€œQuite so,” Becky said. “Live and let live.”
    The coffees arrived.
    â€œI’m serious.” Fiona sipped her espresso. “The family I saw this morning is from Cyprus. The father’s half owner of a taverna. The other owner is a Turk … and all the waiters are Italian.”
    â€œRegular little League of Nations. I suppose the exception does sometimes prove the rule.” Becky had a moustache of latte foam. “I’m not too fond of Cyprus. We, the British that is, lost a lot of boys there in the fifties. Peacekeepers. Trying to keep the Turks and the Greeks from each other’s throats. Still, as you say, it is a rather promising sign that Johnny Turk and a Greek are going into business together over here.”
    â€œJohnny Turk?”
    â€œThat’s what my grandfather called them. He fought the Turks in Gallipoli in the First World War. He did say they were damn fine fighting men. Damn fine. And it wasn’t the Turks the British soldiers had to contend with in Cyprus. It was EOKA, the Greek Cypriot terrorists.”
    Fiona lowered her cup to its saucer. All this talk about war, about Cyprus. EOKA. Sudden memories ran in her mind—like the nightmare—memories she