Free Griefwork by James Hamilton-Paterson Page A

interest.
    ‘I’ve no right to ask this,’ she said without the least impertinence, ‘but are you happy here?’
    ‘Happy?’ It was the sort of job which could be done without a vice, merely needing a small adjustable spanner which he took from the shelf next to the nicotine jar. Nobody had ever asked him a direct personal question in his life. He unscrewed the handle from the body of the tap and examined its rust-orangewasher. ‘I’m content enough, of course. To have survived the war. Those things.’
    ‘Everybody must have some longing, some dissatisfaction. This is a major Western belief, I thought.’
    ‘Ah.’ He found a pair of pliers, gripped the plunger and unscrewed the little brass plate which held the washer.
    She retreated fractionally. ‘Many people, for example, may be quite content in the ordinary way but still have a hankering to travel, for example. The trip of a lifetime to see – oh, I don’t know – the Pyramids or the Taj Mahal, the Amazon or Tahiti. In your case it would be hardly surprising if you wanted to see the places where all these plants grow naturally as part of the landscape.’
    ‘Your own country, for instance.’
    ‘For instance.’ A small shoulder rose and fell beneath the fur, releasing a fragrant breath of ‘Cuir’.
    It occurred to him that even allowing for her tropical origins she must be feeling the heat but he lacked the courage to suggest she remove her coat. ‘Of course I’ve thought about it. Naturally I’d be curious. But I know I never shall. It’s not the point. My job here as curator carries full-time responsibilities and besides, travel that far must be very expensive. I never could have that sort of money. So I never consider it.’
    ‘Oh,’ said the princess, ‘all things are possible, you know.’ This was said without archness and he took it at prosaic face value.
    ‘Football pools? A lottery? I never waste money on things like that so I’m never likely to make any, either.’
    ‘But you surely take holidays now and then? This Botanical Association, whatever it’s called: presumably they’re normal employers and not slave drivers. An expert like yourself is unique. Every so often he needs a sabbatical for research. You’re not some ordinary gardener.’
    ‘The Royal Botanic Society gives its employees holidays, of course,’ he said a little stiffly. ‘Excuse me a moment.’ He left the princess standing there and went away down the nave. The No Admittance door banged softly behind him through the muggy atmosphere. Almost at once he reappeared. She sighed and poked a finger at the pieces of dismantled tap. He returned with a new washer which he began to fit. ‘I’m sorry. What were you saying?’
    She was more than equal to this small rudeness. ‘If it has slipped your memory in two minutes one would certainly think your brain could do with a holiday even if your body doesn’t need one.’ Quite unexpectedly this made him smile. ‘Say you didn’t go abroad, say you couldn’t bring yourself to leave this damned freezing dilapidated derelict city, you could at least stay at home and let someone else look after your greenhouse for a fortnight. They surely couldn’t ruin it. You must have assistants.’
    ‘Not proper assistants,’ Leon told her. ‘There isn’t the money. Just some labourers. And yes, they could ruin it quite easily. Only I and … and only I know how the boilers work. When you say stay at home, this is my home. I live here.’
    She repeated this in amazement, adding, ‘On these premises?’, and looked about her as if expecting to glimpse a camp-bed half concealed by shrubbery.
    ‘Yes,’ he said, now almost shyly. ‘Have for years.’
    ‘Oh, but –’. She had been on the point of saying, ‘Then perhaps you, too, are a singleton’ but was stopped by the squeak of the entrance doors. The light was going steadily now but the neat figure was easily recognisable as he approached. The dark overcoat and suit,